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MORE LIVES THAN ONE 





MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


BY 

CAROLYN WELLS 

\\ V 




BONI and LIVERIGHT 
Publishers New York 



Copyright, I 923 , by 
Boni and Liveright, Inc. 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



C 


©C1A759418 ^ 



fix •'V' 



TO 

MY DEAR FRIEND 
SOPHIE MACKAY 














CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Madeleine. 9 

II. The Artists.21 

III. Who Was She?.34 

IV. An Unknown Guest.47 

V. Hutchins Investigates.60 

VI. Pearl Jane.73 

VII. A Friend Indeed.86 

VIII. The Public Inquiry.99 

IX. Mrs. Gardner's Story.112 

X. Barham Learns the Truth.125 

XI. At the Studio.138 

XII. Chinese Charley.151 

XIII. The Lucky Piece.164 

XIV. Marcia Selden's Opinions.177 

XV. A Telephoned Wooing.190 

XVI. Lorimer Lane.203 

XVII. The Truth About Locke.216 

XVIII. The Whole Truth.229 


















/ 




MORE LIVES THAN ONE 



i 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


CHAPTER I 

MADELEINE 

“We have no interests in common, Drew; why should 
we pretend we want to go to the same places?” 

“I wonder if married people ever have interests in com¬ 
mon? I wonder if any two people have interests in com¬ 
mon—or if it’s marriage that makes their interests 
diverge ?” 

“There you go, with your inane wondering! I often 
wonder what you’ll find to wonder about after you’ve won¬ 
dered about everything!” 

Mrs. Andrew Barham shrugged her petulant shoulders 
and studied her nose in a tiny mirror as she applied a dis¬ 
cretionary amount of powder. 

“Don’t overdo that,” and Barham smiled. 

He meant it rather by way of jest, but Mrs. Selden 
took it up. 

Now, Mrs. Selden was his mother-in-law, and she was 
always taking things up. In fact, it was her taking up 
tendency that was partly responsible for the little rift in 
the Barhams’ lute. 

And there was a rift. Not a very big one, nor did it 
seem to widen much with the years. But this was due to 
Barham’s continual and systematic endeavors that it 
shouldn’t. 


9 


10 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Madeleine was trying, at times, but she was his wife. 
She broke loose occasionally into fearful exhibitions of 
temper, but this was because she had discovered when a 
small child that they brought her advantages which she 
could not get otherwise. And, she was his wife. 

So, Barham being of a mild and equable disposition him¬ 
self, overlooked her fits of temper, put down her tryingness 
to the fact that they didn’t see things from the same view¬ 
point, and they got along. 

Had it not been for Mrs. Selden they would have got 
along much better, but she had an annoying way of stick¬ 
ing her finger in the little rift and tearing it bigger. This, 
Barham had to overlook also—for, she was his wife’s 
mother. 

Apart from Barham’s almost exaggerated chivalry to¬ 
ward women in general, he had a fine sense of honor and 
duty toward his own people, and this, as you can readily 
see, made his life a bit difficult here and there. 

So, when he lightly advised his wife not to overdo her 
powdering performance, Mrs. Selden said sharply: 

“How you do rag at the poor child, Andrew. As if a 
bit of innocent powder did any harm !” 

The trio were just finishing dinner, and Mrs. Selden laid 
down her coffee spoon w r ith a faint click, as if to express 
her utter despair at the fearful inhumanity of man. 

She was an extremely handsome woman, just this side of 
sixty, but trying to look, and fairly well succeeding, about 
fifty. Her white hair was dressed in large soft waves, and 
her big dark eyes were still bright and expressive. Her 
complexion was good and, save for an oversharpness of 
features, she would have been beautiful. But beauty, in 
her case, was sacrificed to aristocracy, and the somewhat 
hawklike nose, and high cheek bones gave an effect of high 
birth and good breeding. 



MADELEINE 


11 


These Marcia Selden had, but she had also traits of 
domination and determination and amazing powers of 
irritation. 

Moreover, she always assumed herself in the right, and 
took on an injured expression if any one hinted otherwise. 

Mother and daughter didn’t get on any too well, but 
they always found common cause in a grievance against 
Barham. 

A little more harshness of character would have stood 
the man in good stead—but then, he wouldn’t have been 
Andrew Barham. 

“Gentle, lovable—somewhat inconsequent old Drew,” as 
his friends called him, would do almost anything to avoid 
an unpleasantness; and his doing of almost anything made 
the opportunities for unpleasantnesses even more frequent. 

Quite often he tried the soft answer, guaranteed to turn 
away w T rath; sometimes he changed the subject; and some¬ 
times he merely was silent. 

This time he tried the last method, and Mrs. Selden took 
that up. 

“Of course you have nothing to say! There is no 
answer, no excuse for a gratuitous rebuff. Come now— 
why do you mind Madeleine’s powdering her nose?” 

“I daresay I’m a bit old-fashioned, mother, but I have a 
distaste for vanity-cases used at table. Oh, I know it’s 
done—and all that—but as Madeleine is doubtless at once 
going to her boudoir, it would seem unnecessary—oh, 
pshaw, I only said it in a joke, anyway.” 

“A very poor joke, in my estimation,” and Mrs. Selden 
pursed her thin lips in utter and entire disapproval. 

So Barham tried changing the subject. 

“Whither away to-night, Madeleine? Or staying at 

home?” 

He glanced at her elaborate house gown, thinking what 




12 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


a pretty woman his wife was. Her dark, bright eyes, her 
soft dusky hair, and her charming coloring made her 
almost a beauty. But, like her mother, her attractiveness 
was lessened by an expression of perversity, a hint of 
readiness to take offense. 

“No; I’m not staying at home—but what does it matter 
to you where I’m going? As I said, we have no interests 
in common—and your inquiries are mere politeness !” 

“At least, let us keep politeness, Madeleine.” 

Barham’s voice was a bit wistful, and Madeleine might 
have responded to that note in it, but Mrs. Selden took 
it up. 

“Are you implying that Madeleine is lacking in polite¬ 
ness? Have a care, Andrew ! I won’t stand everything!” 

Now Andrew Barham was not a weak-spirited man, 
though it might seem so. But his innate courtesy to women 
and his dread of a scene kept him from any show of right¬ 
eous indignation at this speech. 

Fortunately, Madeleine rose from the table, preventing 
any further tilting. 

“No,” she said, suddenly smiling prettily, “I won’t tell 
you where I’m going—yes, I will, I’m going to Mrs. Gard¬ 
ner’s. Rest assured it’s a place you wouldn’t enjoy, so I 
shan’t invite you to go along. Where are you going? To 
the Club ?” 

“Yes; maybe to a theater afterward—maybe not.” 

He looked a bit gloomy as he stood in the hall, lighting a 
cigarette, and nodding to the man to bring his hat. 

“You’re extremely good-looking. Drew—but I get so 
tired of looking at you,” his wife said, with a bored little 
smile. “Perhaps when I see you next, you’ll look gayer,” 
and with a mere mockery of throwing a kiss to him, she 
ran off upstairs to her own rooms. 

Mrs. Selden never spent her evenings with “the chil- 




MADELEINE 


13 


dren.” She read the papers and then, dawdling over her 
rather extensive preparations, she went early to bed. 

Leaving the house, Barham walked to his favorite Club, 
and as he went he mused on the strange fate that had given 
him Madeleine for a wife. 

“No interests in common,” he quoted to himself. “Why 
haven’t we? If I had her to myself—without mother 
Selden around—I might persuade her to take up golf or 
some outdoor thing that we could do together. But she’d 
never give up her Bridge. And I can’t learn the con¬ 
founded game! Strange, too; I’ve a good head for lots of 
things—yet there are nincompoops like Travers and Jim 
Bell who can put up a wonderful game of Bridge, though 
they couldn’t cope with the tiniest one of my problems. 

“If I had a wife, now, like—” but his own sense of right 
and wrong forbade him to go further. 

After all, Madeleine was his wife—and that was all there 
was about that. He must try, he decided, to make himself 
more desirable in her eyes. More attractive, more useful— 
Well, she had said, that though he was good-looking—that 
was a nasty fling! As to being useful—he paid her bills 
and was always a gallant attendant when she wanted him. 

But she seldom wanted him. Usually she preferred to 
go about with her own cronies, who liked him as little as he 
liked them. 

Not that they were really objectionable. But they were 
a gay and frivolous lot, and even with the best intentions 
he couldn’t speak their lingo. 

A man of the world, a clubman, a man about town—all 
these he was. A good fellow, a fine pal—all his chums 
would tell you that—yet the sort of Smart Set, semi-fast 
people his wife enjoyed, were as utter strangers to him. 

He had tried—tried to talk their small talk, laugh at 
their small jests, fathom their small souls—but, though 





14 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


with no undue sense of his own importance he couldn t 

make good from their point of view. 

He set it all down to his own shortcomings, but the fact 
remained. And so as this was part of the rift, the Bar¬ 
hams had come to spend their evenings, as a rule, away 
from each other. 

However, he had become pretty well used to it, and as he 
reached his Club he was in a more cheerful frame of mind. 
He went in with a smile, ran across good old Nick Nelson, 
and stopped in the smoking room for a chat with him. 

v t 

Meanwhile, Madeleine, in her room, was doing some 

thinking. It was too early to dress and she had some other 

things to think out first, anyway. 

At last she rose and went down the hall to her mother’s 

rooms. 

“Mother,” she said, patting the fine white hair, “I-” 

“I know what that means,” and Mrs. Selden drew her 
head away from her daughter’s caressing hand. “Now, 
Madeleine, I haven’t a cent for you. It’s outrageous, the 
way you go on. \ ou know, very well, if Andrew had the 
least idea how you are managing, he would ” 

“Yes, what would he do? He hasn’t the power to do 

anything-” 

“Don’t be too sure. You know Andrew—but I know 
the world better than you do, I know men better than you 
do—and you needn’t think that because Andrew never has 
broken loose, he never will!” 

“Broken loose—how?” 

“Reprimand you—disgrace you—punish you-” 

“Disgrace! Punish! Mother, what do you mean?” 
“Oh, hush up, child—don’t think I don’t know things! 
Andrew and I both spoil you—we’re both too lenient with 
you—but—we both know-” 








u 


MADELEINE 


15 


“Pooh! What do you know ? Only that I lose a lot at 
Bridge! Well, I can’t help it, if I have bad luck. I’m a 
first-class player—any one w T ill tell you that. But I’m 
having a run of ill luck. Everybody has ’em, and they 
have to be followed by a streak of good luck. Everybody 
knows that. And when the good luck comes I’ll pay back 
all I’ve borrowed from you or anybody else—and more, 
too. Now, come, Mother, be a duck and let me have at 
least a few hundreds.” 

“Madeleine, I can’t.” 

“That means you won’t.” 

“Take it either way you like—but you won’t get any.” 

“Then I’ll tell you what I think of you! I think you’re 
a horrid old woman who refuses her own child—her only 
child, a few paltry dollars! You care nothing at all for 
my pleasure ! You’ve feathered your own nest—or, rather 
I feathered it for you, by my marriage with a rich man! 
You have everything you want—ease, comfort, luxury— 
while I, a rich man’s w r ife, haven’t a cent to call my own!” 

“Why haven’t you? Because you’ve thrown it away 
gambling. Your husband gives you an enormous allow¬ 
ance—he even gives you extra money wdien you ask for 
it—and now, that you’ve reached the limit of his endurance 
and generosity, you come to me, to ask for the tiny sum 
I’ve saved-” 

“Oh, have you, Mother? Have you saved a sum—do 
lend it to me, dearie? I’m sure I’ll win to-night—and, 
besides, I’ll tell you a secret—maybe—just maybe, you 
know, soon I w T on’t have any trouble to get all the money I 
want-” 

“Heavens, Madeleine, what do you mean by such talk? 
What are you going to do?” 

“Nothing to make you look like that! Only—just 
maybe—Andrew will give me a lot of money.” 










16 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“You’re going to give up gambling? Is that it? Going 
to be more the sort of a wife he wants?” 

“Maybe—” the pretty face wore a tantalizing smile— 
“anyway—I’ve a plan—a perfectly good, right plan. Oh, 
Mother, it’s—but don’t ask me, it’s a secret—as yet.” 

“Where are you going to-night ?” 

“To Emmy Gardner’s. But I’m going somewhere else 
first, and I’m in a hurry to get dressed. So, come across, 
old dear—that’s a love!” 

“Haven’t got it,” and Mrs. Selden returned to her news¬ 
paper, with a cold smile at her daughter. 

“Mother! don’t throw me like that! I tell you I must 
have it. I can’t play to-night unless I pay a debt of last 
night. I haven’t a cent myself—oh, how can you be so 
heartless!” 

“Madeleine, behave yourself. I tell you I haven’t more 
than ten or fifteen dollars in the house.” 

“I don’t believe it”—and Madeleine began to rummage 
in her mother’s dresser drawers. 

“Stop that!” cried Mrs. Selden. “If you’re so sure of 
winning to-night, they’ll take your I.O.U. for last night’s 
debts.” 

“That shows how little you know about it,” and 
Madeleine sneered her scorn. “Mother, if you don’t give 
me some money, you’ll be sorry!” 

“I’ll be sorrier if I do. Good-night.” 

“I hate you!” and Madeleine ground her teeth in pas¬ 
sion. “I hate you for a cruel, unnatural parent! I’ve a 
notion to turn you out of this house—you horrid old 
thing! You-” 

“Oh, do hush. You act as you used to act when you 
were a child.” 

“And you treat me as cruelly as you did then! If you’d 
brought rae up differently—-I might have been a better 







MADELEINE 


17 


woman. Oh, you don’t know 3'et how bad I can be—and I 
will, too—if you don’t help me out this time!” 

“Go to your room, and get over your tantrum. You’ll 
get no money from me to-night.” 

Mrs. Selden rose, and practically pushed her daughter 
through the doorway to the hall. 

Madeleine went—seeing there was no hope of achieving 
her desire, but she went off muttering vengeance, and with 
a face white with passion. 

In her boudoir again, she called her maid. 

“Claudine,” she said, “you must lend me some money— 
just for this evening. Come now—there’s a dear.” 

“Willingly, Madame—but, alas, I have none.” 

“That’s not true—you were paid only yesterday.” 

“But I sent it away—to my poor sister-” 

“Claudine, you’re lying. Now—see here—if you don’t 
let me have some money—I’ll tell your friend Carl 
about-” 

“No, Madame—no, I beg of you-” 

The French maid turned pale with apprehension, and 
looked beseechingly at her determined mistress. 

“Yes, I will—I surely will! Now, you know you have 
some-” 

“Only fifty dollars, Madame—as God is my witness, 
that’s all I have.” 

“Pah! that would do me no good at all! Keep your 
fifty—but, Claudine, get me Mrs. Sayre on the telephone. 
And after you get her—leave the room.” 

“Yes, Madame.” 

Madeleine stretched out on her chaise longue , smiled a 
little as she waited. 

She looked like some sleek well fed cat, about to seize on 
its unsuspecting prey. 

Perhaps students of such things would have said her 











18 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


gambling instinct was an inheritance from some reckless, 
swashbuckling ancestor. 

Others would hold, and more likely they were right, it 
was the result of the heedless, rushing pace set by the 
crowd with whom she lived and moved and danced and had 
her being. 

Yet few of that crowd, if any, pla3 T ed so desperately, so 
feverishly or so continuously as Madeleine. 

And none lost so much. Although really a fine player, 
she seemed one of those who have persistent bad luck, and 
if she won, she was quite likely to lose all her winnings on 
one last high-stake game before she stopped. 

She loved the excitement of it, the hazard of it, the 
uncertainty. 

And she had the optimism of the true gambler, who 
always thinks his luck just about to turn to better and to 
best, quite undaunted by the fact that it never does. 

She reconnoitered. She was in desperate straits. If she 
didn’t pay up last night’s debts to-night, before beginning 
to play, her creditors, two unprincipled women, had threat¬ 
ened to tell her husband of the situation. 

Andrew knew she played Bridge—frequently—almost 
incessantly—but he had no idea of the height of her stakes, 
or the terrific amounts she lost. 

Always before, her mother had helped her out. Always 
before, she had won enough to tide over, at least. Always 
before—she had managed by hook or by crook to keep 
above water. 

But to-night she was desperate. Something must be 
done—and done quickly. 

“Mrs. Sayre on the wire,” Claudine announced, and as 
Madeleine took up the receiver, the maid left the room. 

“Hello, Rosamond,” Madeleine said, “come over a 
few moments, can’t you?” 





MADELEINE 


19 


“Why, hello, Maddy—what in the world for?” 

“I just want to see you. Seems ’s if I can’t get along 
another minute without seeing you!” 

The voice at the other end of the wire gave a short, 
quick sound of laughter, but there was an uneasy note in 
it—almost a note of alarm. 

“Why, my dear old thing—I can’t come now—I’m dress¬ 
ing. Aren’t you going to Emmy’s to-night?” 

“Y es—but not till about eleven.” 

“I know—but I’ve an errand first.” 

“So’ve I. Look here, Rosamond, you’d better come over 
here. Slip into a little street frock and run over for a 
minute. You can walk it in no time—Harrison won’t 
know you’re out of the house.” 

“But why? Why must I do that?” The voice was 
petulant now, and Madeleine’s became more commanding. 

“Because I say so. Come along, now!” 

She hung up the receiver with a snap, and summoned 
Claudine again. 

“Dress me quickly,” she commanded, “all but my gown. 
Do my hair small and plain. Yes—flesh-colored stock- 
mgs. 7 

The apt maid understood and with Madeleine’s approval 
did the dark, soft hair into a compact mass that was 
becoming but not elaborate. 

By the time the negligee was thrown over the silken 
undergarments there came a light tap at the door. 

“That will be Mrs. Sayre,” Madeleine said; “let her in, 
Claudine, and disappear.” 

“Well, sweetie, what’s up?” and Rosamond Sayre 
dropped into an easy chair and lighted a cigarette. 

“Just had to see you,” returned Madeleine, falling back 
on the chaise longue. “How’s your husband?” 

“Harrison? Oh, he’s all right.” 




20 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Funny little man—isn’t he?” 

“Yes—why?” Mrs. Sayre seemed in no wise offended. 

“But fond of vou?” 

“As whose husband isn’t—if the wife wants him to be?” 

“And proud of you?” 

“Why shouldn’t he be?” 

Rosamond Sayre looked at herself in a mirror. 

“He’d be blind if he didn’t see reason to be proud of 
me,” she said, airily, flicking her cigarette ashes on the rug. 

She gave an impression of absolute self-satisfaction. 
Her beryl eyes flashed with vanity, her great masses of 
gold-brown hair clustered over her ears and framed a 
piquant, bewitching face. Her dashing little figure and 
vivacious gestures betokened self-reliance, as well as self¬ 
approval. 

“Come on, now, Maddy—out with it,” she said; “I must 
run, in ten minutes, at most. Going to scold me, kid me— 
or borrow money of me?” She eyed her friend rather 
sharply. 

“Good guesser!” Madeleine cried. “The third time con¬ 
quers. I’m going to borrow money of you.” 

“Broke—haven’t a cent!” and the beryl eyes showed 
darker glints in them. 

“Pooh, don’t come that over me. Harrison will give you 
a thousand in a minute—if you ask him prettily.” 

“But I wouldn’t ask him—for you.” Rosamond smoked 
calmly on. 

“Oh, do now—Rosy, listen.” 

And then Madeleine talked and Rosamond, too, low and 
earnestly, and very steadily, for several minutes. 

And Rosamond Sayre said, “All right—I’ll bring you a 
thousand to-night—at Emmy Gardner’s. Be there by 
eleven?” 

“I think so; or a few moments later.” 






CHAPTER II 


i 


THE ARTISTS 

The pretentiousness of a studio, especially a Wash¬ 
ington Square studio, is quite often in inverse proportion 
to the merit of the pictures it gives up. 

But Tommy Locke’s studio defeated this description by 
being a golden mean as to both propositions. 

Indeed, Henry Post, the artist’s cynical friend, said that 
Locke’s draperies and his canvases showed a wonderfully 
similar lack of distinction. 

And Kate Vallon had quickly added, “Let’s call them 
his appointments and disappointments.” 

But Tommy Locke had only smiled comfortably and had 
gone on painting his interminable green and blue land¬ 
scapes in which, if anybody cared for a certain vague misty 
charm—they did not find it entirely lacking. 

And even if he had no high-backed, gilt-framed Italian 
arm-chairs and no armor or ragged priests’ robes, he often 
had good-looking bowls of even better looking flowers and 
he served first-rate tea, and somehow the neighbors loved 
to drift in and out of his nondescript rooms. 

His ways were ways of pleasantness and all his paths 
were peace, yet though his chums were usually tolerant and 
broad-minded thinkers, there was little real Bohemianism 
in evidence, that is, the Bohemianism of what is known as 
The Village. 

His few worthwhile bits of old furniture stood upon 
worthwhile old rugs and his specimens of artistic junk 
were few and far between. 


21 


22 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Yet, strangely enough, Tommy Locke himself affected 
the manner of the comic paper artist—at least, to a 
degree. 

He wore his black hair a bit longer than other men, he 
wore his big round glasses with very heavy tortoise-shell 
frames, and he wore his collar soft and loose, with a 
flowing Windsor tie, usually black. 

He was chaffed a bit now and then as to his incon¬ 
sistencies, but it was generally admitted futile to try to get 

a rise out of old Tommv. 

•/ 

In fact he calmly stated that his get-up was the only 
real claim he had to being one of the noble army of artists, 
and Henry Post had glanced at the misty landscapes and 
murmured, “Some of your titles show latent talent, I 
think.” 

“It’s so nice to be understood!” Locke had exclaimed. 
“Yes, I’ll say my ‘Monotony in Sagebrush’ is both meanful 
and catching.” 

“If that’s all you want you may well have called it ‘The 
Mumps,’ ” Kate Vallon had reported. 

These three and another, one Pearl Jane Cutler, formed 
a sort of chummy quartette, and, though they chummed 
but seldom, they did most of it in Tommy’s non-committal 
studio. 

“If you’d have a splash of color over that blank looking 
window,” Kate would suggest, and Tommy would wave 
away the suggestion without a word. 

Then would Pearl Jane, who was remarkably suggestive 
of Little Annie in Enoch Arden , say, plaintively, “I like it 
all—just as it is,” and Tommy’s beaming smile would be 
for her. 

They had all finished laughing at her baptismal absurd¬ 
ity—she had been named for the two neighbors on either 
side of her mother’s house—and without a nickname, they 



THE ARTISTS 


23 


accepted her as Pearl Jane. It was as yet a question what 
she would sign her masterpieces of art, as she hadn’t, 
strictly speaking, produced them yet. 

She hadn’t been in the city very long, but Washington 
Square claimed her for its own. She loved it—all four 
sides—and many of its byways. She dabbled away, with a 
brush that was, so far, incompetent and irrelevant, but she 
cheerfully insisted that she was finding herself, and that 
some day she would paint pictures like Tommy’s. 

“Heaven forfend!” Post would cry out. “If you must 
copy, choose the billboard school, or the newspaper car¬ 
toon group, but don’t take aim for Tommy’s greenery 
dingles and blue glades.” 

“Beautiful title!” Tommy mused; “ ‘The Blue Glades of 
Glengowrie’—I’ll do that next.” 

“And that reminds me,” Kate said, she was always being 
inscrutably reminded, “our infant here, our Pearl Jane, 
has never been to a masquerade! A real one, I mean. She 
doesn’t count the Ivy Club Sociables in her Main Street 
home. Will you have one for her, Tommy? We’ll all 
help.” 

“Better yet, I’ll paint one for her,” Locke said; “then 
she can see how one really looks.” 

“No, she can’t,” Post declared. “You see, in your pic-r 
tures, so much more is meant than meets the eye—and 
Pearl Jane wants her eyes met.” 

“All right, then,” and Locke thought a minute. “Not a 
very big one, you said, didn’t you? And, no one asked 
but our own crowd, you insisted on, didn’t } T ou? And you 
stipulated it would be small and early—am I not right? 
And if I am not mistaken, you said there’s no hurry about 
it.” 

But he was set right on all these points, and the mas¬ 
querade party for Pearl Jane was arranged in exactly the 




24 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


fashion Kate Vallon and Henry Post deemed fitting and 
proper. 

However, their ideas were much in line with Locke’s 
own, and so they made it only a few hours later and a few 
people larger than he consented to. 

Pearl Jane was in ecstasies, and when the night came, 
and she was togged out in her Hutch Peasant costume, her 
already bobbed fair hair flying from under her stiff lace 
cap, she couldn’t wait for the hour and ran round to 
Tommy’s early. 

She found him, garbed in a monk’s robe and cowl, stand¬ 
ing before an easel, gazing at one of his own pictures. 

“Do you really like it, Pearl Jane?” he said, almost 
wistfully, as she came up and stood at his side in silence. 

“Yes, I do. They can guy you all they like—there’s 
something in your work—something of Manet—I mean 
Monet-” 

“Eeny, meeny, miney, mo!” he laughed, and turned to 
look at her. “Why, bless my soul, madam, you’ve suddenly 
grown up!” 

“No, that’s ’cause this frock is longer than I usually 
wear. Do you like it ?” 

“Do blue and yellow make green? Yes, I like it. You’re 
a picture!” 

“What’s the title?” asked another voice, and Kate and 
Post appeared. 

“I think it might be called ‘The Puritan’s Carouse,’ 
Locke said, wresting his glance from the pretty Dutch girl. 
“Hello, Kate, you’re quite all right as a Contadina— 
Henry, not quite so good as a Spanish Don.” 

“Ah, I’m not a Spanish Don—your mistake. I’m a 
Portuguese Man o’ War.” 

“You look more like an Oscar Wilde.” 





THE ARTISTS 


25 


“Take that back! Call me anything but like that over¬ 
rated, underbred gyastyockus!” 

“I thought he was a great poet,” Pearl Jane said, 
wonderingly. “I never read any of his-” 

“Don’t!” Post said, “I forbid it. There’s enough for 
you, yet unread. Pearl Jane, dear, without touching that 
Purple Jellyfish!” 

“Some of his poems are fine,” Kate began, but Locke 
interrupted her: 

“Only one—‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’ is a great 
poem, but nothing else of his is worthy of consideration.” 

Kate Vallon began to quote: 

And all men kill the thing they love, 

By all let this be heard, 

Some do it with a bitter look, 

Some with a flattering word. 

The coward does it with a kiss, 

The brave man with a sword. 

“Oh, I hate it!” Pearl Jane shuddered. “If it’s like that, 
I don’t want to read it!” 

“No, you don’t,” Locke agreed; “besides, he’s out of 
date now. You stick to your John Masefield and Carl 
Sandburg.” 

“I don’t know them very well,” the girl acknowledged, 
“they’re rather hard, I think.” 

Now Pearl Jane Cutler was by no means a child or an 
ignoramus. But she had been simply brought up in a 
small town, and though fairly well grounded in the rudi¬ 
ments of Life and Literature, she had still quite a bit to 
learn, and was swallowing it in chunks—anaconda like. 
She was twenty-two, and carried a little more flesh on her 
young bones than the average all-city girl did. Kate 
Yallon, half a dozen years older, was keeping an eye on her, 




26 MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


and she thought maybe, perhaps, possibly, after a thou¬ 
sand years of study. Pearl Jane might learn to paint some¬ 
thing noisier than clay pots and onions. 

Chinese Charley appeared in the doorway. 

“They arrive,” he said, a little laconically. 

“Show them up,” Tommy ordered, as succinctly, and 
then the quartette hurried on their masks and the revel 
began. 

Locke was a little surprised at the stream of people 
that flowed in. He was not inhospitable, and there was 
room enough, but he thought Post might have told him 
w r hat he was up to. He said as much to Henry Post, 
who responded: 

“I didn’t do it, Tommy, honest, I didn’t. But several 
whom I did invite, just casually said they might bring 
friends. I couldn’t say them nay—now could I?” 

“Rather not,” said Locke, and turned to greet some new¬ 
comers. 

But, in his mask, and his concealing robe and cowl, 
almost no one knew him, and so he had no duties as host. 
This suited him well enough, and he sauntered about, 
looking at the hackneyed costumes, recognizing some 
figure here and there, or mistakenly thinking he did. 

The studio looked festive to-night, for Kate and Henry 
had insisted on a few decorations and had chosen 
Chinese lanterns and artificial cherry blossoms. These 
delighted the soul of Charle} r , Locke’s house-boy, and he 
gazed up at them, now and then, beatifically picturesque. 

He was devoted to Locke, though so quiet of manner 
and scant of speech that there were no protestations, but 
he showed his affection in immaculate housekeeping and 
meticulous obedience to orders. 

The place was not large; only the second floor entire, 
and a room or two on the first floor. Supper would be 



THE ARTISTS 


27 


served downstairs, so the big studio and one or two smaller 
rooms could be used for dancing. This left a small room 
for a smoking den, and Locke’s own bedroom for a ladies’ 
dressing room. 

A small orchestra arrived and soon proved that it could 
make jazz music out of all proportion to its size. 

Locke asked a Carmen to dance with him, thinking he 
knew her, but found he was again mistaken. 

“Strange how merely a mask can disguise one so thor¬ 
oughly,” he said; “I’d think the face only a small part of 
a personality.” 

“Then it proves, practically, that the face is the whole 
individual,” Carmen returned, turning her mask a trifle 
until he saw a lovely cheek and curving lips. “But as 
you’ve never seen me before, you couldn’t be expected to 
know me.” 

“I didn’t expect to, I merely thought you were someone 
else.” 

“I know almost no one here,” Carmen said ; “of course it 
makes no difference while we’re masked, but at supper 
time I shall know nobody.” 

“That’s all right, I’ll introduce you about, and you’ll 
have made dozens of friends among your partners by that 
time. . . 

“Who are you, Sir Monk, tell me that, at any rate.” 

“My name would mean nothing to you—it’s entirely 
uncelebrated.” 

“Tell me all the same”—the pretty voice was per¬ 
emptory. 

“Smith,” he replied, “John Smith.” 

“And you call that name uncelebrated? One of the best 
known in the country. Fie, fie, Mr. Smith—just for that 
I shall call you John.” 

“And I may call you?” 



28 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Mary—Mary Smith.” 

“Miss Smith, then. I never begin to call the ladies by 
their first names until midnight—at least.” 

“Tell me something—who is that woman in the gorgeous 
Oriental costume?” 

“Where?” 

“Over toward the hall door. See?” 

“Oh, yes, I see. I haven’t the faintest idea who she is. 
But as I say, they’re all disguised from me. Besides, with 
this silly cowl, I can only see straight ahead! I might as 
well be a horse in blinders!” 

“Can’t you take it off?” 

“And spoil my real Cistercian rig! Never! Besides, 
I haven’t my tonsure on straight.” 

“Do you know the host?” Carmen asked, suddenly. 

“Do you mean, do I know him? or, do I know which one 
he is ?” 

“Both.” 

“Yes, I am acquainted with him,” Locke said, truth¬ 
fully, and mendaciously added, “but I don’t know which 
one he is. That Spanish Don, maybe. Don’t you know 
Locke at all?” 

“No, but I’ve heard a lot of him.” 

“Good, bad or rotten?” 

“Not the last—they all say he’s a trump. But queer.” 

“Queer, how?” 

“Sort of a vagabond—goes off on jaunts by him¬ 
self-” 

“Painting?” 

“I suppose so. Is his work any good ?’ 4 

“Middling. Not very little and not very big. But I 
think he’s happy in it.” 

“I’m only happy when I’m dancing.” 

“My heavens, I can’t dance all night!” 




THE ARTISTS 


29 


“There are others! That’s what I was hinting!” 

“How prettily rude you are! That’s the beauty of a 
masquerade—one can say anything.” 

“Can one? Then listen! I know you! I know who you 
are!” 

“Do you?” said Locke. “Well, I’m not so overwhelmed 
at that! I know who you are!” 

“Ah, but I’m telling the truth—and you’re fibbing!” 

And with a merry trill of laughter, Carmen disengaged 
herself from his clasping arm and ran away. 

“Foolish chit!” Locke thought, and wandered about, 
looking for Pearl Jane. 

The Dutch Girl was dancing with a Sailor Boy, and 
Locke stood to one side and watched them. 

“Funny thing about Pearl Jane,” he thought; “she’s 
womanly—and all that—and yet she’s little more than a 
child. Lucky she has Kate beside her—Kate’s a trump. 
But Kate’s party here to-night is rubbish! I am bored 
already. However, the kiddy wanted her Bal Masque , and 
now she’s got it. I hope she’s enjoying herself. I wonder 
what she’ll grow up to. It will take a jolt of some sort 
to waken her. She’s a dear thing—but—well, she’s Pearl 
Jane!” 

And then, he discovered he could claim her for a dance, 
and at once did so. 

“How’s the party?” he inquired, as they swung off. 

“Oh, it’s blissful! It’s double-distilled Paradise!” 

“There, there, save your adjectives ! Don’t be foolishly 
extravagant!” 

“But don’t you think so? Don’t you just love it? All 
the lights and the people, and the jewels-” 

“Mock jewels-* 

“What of it? Don’t be cynical to-night, Tommy— 
dear.” 






30 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


His heart missed a beat, as he caught something in her 
tone that he had never heard there before. 

He must have shown his perception of it, for he saw a 
rosy blush beneath the edge of her little mask, and he has¬ 
tened to say, “No, it doesn’t matter that they’re mock 
jewels—for they’re mock people.” 

“Yes,” she said, softly, “all but you and me.” 

Locke was nonplussed. He didn’t know whether Pearl 
Jane was trying to make love to him, or whether the 
gayety of the occasion had gone to her head a little. He 
decided on the latter opinion, and steered the talk into a 
safer channel. 

And yet, he couldn’t help thinking, she was very sweet, 
the soft little chin that nestled against his shoulder, the 
curve of the cheek that still showed pink, and most of all 
the bright happy eyes that now and then met his through 
the eyeholes of their masks. 

Clearly, he decided, I’d better get away from her. She’ll 
enchant me in another minute—and that won’t do. Little 
Pearl Jane! Waking up! Oh, Lord! 

So, with a graceful bow, he handed her to a waiting and 
eager Clowm, and sauntered off himself to do a duty dance 
with Kate. 

Not but that he liked Kate Vallon, but after all, Locke 
was not overly fond of dancing, and he had a dim idea of 
retreating to the smoking room as soon as might be. 

“Buck up,” said Kate, after a few rounds, “you’re a 
good dancer, Tommy, but you have no soul in it.” 

“I’d rather paint,” Locke returned. “Wouldn’t you, 
Kate?” 

“Yes, I would. I’d rather do lots of things. But we’re 
a few years older than Pearl Jane, or Henry, either. How 
old are you, Tommy?” 

“Twenty-eight; why?” 




THE ARTISTS 


31 


“So’m I. Well, after twenty, nowadays, one gets fed 
up with dancing.” 

“Nonsense, lots of old ones love it. I never was keen 
about it. Want to sit out a while?” 

“Yes, but not with you! Find Jack Henderson for me, 
won’t you? He’s a Continental Soldier.” 

Not at all minding Kate’s candor, Locke went after the 
man she preferred. He looked about in the rooms, and 
then went downstairs in his search. The staircase was 
crowded, and as he passed a “Winter,” he heard her say, 
“How very warm it is—I must have some air!” 

He turned to see if he could be of assistance, but others 
were nearer her, so he went on. 

He found Henderson and sent him to Kate. 

“My, but I’m glad to be summoned,” the cheery Hen¬ 
derson said, as he reached her. “I didn’t dare intrude till 
I was sent for.” 

After a few moments they concluded the room was too 
crowded for chat, and they started for a tiny balcony that 
gave from a rear window. 

“What’s that?” cried Henderson, as they passed 
through the little smoking room, dimly lighted and now 
deserted. 

“What’s what ?” 

“That on the floor, behind the table!” 

“Looks like a pillow from a couch,” and Kate glanced 
toward some gay colored silk that lay in folds. 

“It isn’t! Kate—stay back!” 

Henderson took another step, and gave a startled 
exclamation. 

“Keep back, I tell you, Kate. There’s been some awful 
accident. Call some one—some man. Call Locke and 
Post first. Wait, don’t raise a general alarm. Get that 
Chinese servant.” 





32 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


*‘What is it, Jack? I will see! Oh, my God!” 

Kate Vallon pulled herself together by strong will 
power. 

“Who is it ? Take off her mask!” 

“I—oh, I can’t! Get Locke—do, Kate!” 

Kate ran through the rooms, and though she didn’t see 
Locke just then, she saw Henry Post and bade him go at 
once to the smoking room. 

He did so, and Kate continued her hunt for Charley, 
trying to keep from screaming out. 

“What is it?” Post asked, coming into the dimly lighted 
room. 

“Something terrible,” Henderson said, gravely. “See 
here, Post, this woman is dead. I’ve felt her heart—and I 
tell you, man, she’s dead.” 

“Who is she?” 

“I’ve no idea. A stranger. I wouldn’t raise her mask 
when Kate was here, but I’ve done so now, and I don’t 
know her.” 

“My heavens! What shall we do ? What ought we to 
do?” 

“First get Locke. Also Chinese Charley. And as you 
go out, shut the door. I don’t fancy being here alone— 
but you must shut the door to keep the women out. Then 
—oh, I don’t know what then! Get Locke first.” 

Henry Post gone, Henderson again looked at the 
woman’s features. She w r as beautiful, save for an awful 
wound where something had crashed down on her temple, 
and had surely killed her. 

“What a strange accident!” Henderson thought. “If 
she had fallen against a fender now—but there’s no mantel¬ 
piece in this room. I wonder if there’s a doctor here. I 
ought to call one. It can do no harm to leave the poor 
thing alone for a minute—I won’t go past the door.” 





THE ARTISTS 


33 


Half uncertainly he rose and went to the door into the 
studio. 

Slightly opening it, he asked the first man he saw to see 
if any doctor was present and would come to him at 
once. 

“I’ll get one,” and the youth hurried away. 

And in a moment he was back, with Doctor Gannett. 




CHAPTER III 


WHO WAS SHE? 

Henderson admitted Doctor Gannett and stood nerv¬ 
ously waiting as the physician stooped over the prostrate 
form. 

Almost impatiently he pulled olT the mask and tore away 
the filmy veil which still hid the lower portion of the face, 
and Henderson noticed with increased pain what a lovely 
face it was. Strangely enough, it was not highly colored 
artificially, indeed, it could scarcely be said to be made 
up at all. 

Jack Henderson was impressionable and he turned his 
glance away as the doctor remorselessly, though gently, 
moved the wounded head and peered into the dead eyes. 

Then the medical man looked up wonderingly and 
gazed around. 

“What hit her?” he said, with a puzzled frown. “Unless 
she fell against something, she must have been—attacked— 
here, we have it!” 

As he brushed aside the voluminous draperies of the 
Oriental costume he found that some folds of silk had 
covered what was without doubt the instrument of death. 

It was a heavy bronze book-end, shaped like the head of 
a Sphinx. A quick glance showed the mate to it on the 
table near by. 

“She was hit on the temple by this weight,” the doctor 
said, gravely. “It is highly improbable that the bronze 
was on the floor and she fell on it—it looks far more 
like-” 


34 



WHO WAS SHE? 


35 


“Don’t say it!” Henderson cried. “Who could do such 
a thing? Here in Tommy’s place?” 

“It is certain that she did not fall on it,” the doctor 
went on. “Had she done so, her head would be nearer the 
bronze. As you see, it was down by her knees—it was 
hidden by her tunic. It was used as a club-” 

“Or as a missile,” Henderson added. 

The doctor looked up quickly. “You’re sharp,” he said. 
“Yes, or as a missile. And if the latter, it was a strong 
arm and an angry man who flung it!” 

“Who is she?” 

“I’ve no idea. But I know few people here. I just ran 
in for a few minutes at the invitation of a friend.” 

Doctor Gannett himself had worn a simple black domino, 
which he had already thrown aside, appearing in ordinary 
evening dress. 

He turned from the body on the floor, and said, “We 
must notify the police. I think the best thing is to call in 
the officer on the beat and let him take charge. Where is 
Mr. Locke?” 

“He will be here as soon as they can get hold of him,” 
Henderson returned, beginning to wonder himself why he, 
who knew Locke only slightly, was thrust into this prom¬ 
inent position. 

Gannett opened the door, to find many anxious, horri¬ 
fied people crowding about. 

“Where is Mr. Locke?” he spoke, commandingly. 
“Bring him here, somebody. And somebody else ask the 
policeman outside to come in. If you don’t see him 
promptly, telephone Headquarters. There has been a 
very serious accident. No one must leave the house until 
some investigation is made. And now, who knows the name 
of the lady who appeared in a very handsome Oriental cos- 




36 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


tume, with many veils and scarves and jewels—and a tur¬ 
ban with waving feathers?” 

“White Paradise feathers?” asked an excited girl. 
“There was only one costume like that!” 

“Yes,” and “I remember it!” and such assents fell from 
the lips of many. 

The startled, huddled crowd, with ordinary human 
curiosity, strove to get nearer the door of the little smok¬ 
ing den, and the men who hurried to carry out the doctor’s 
orders pushed through as best they could. 

Henry Post and Kate Vallon met these messengers in 
the hall downstairs. 

“Where is Mr. Locke?” one said, as the other went for 
the policeman. 

“I haven’t found him yet,” Post replied. “He must be 
about somewhere.” 

“We must find him—they’ve called the police.” 

“The police!” Kate exclaimed, “oh, what for?” 

“I—I don’t know exactly—but nobody must leave the 
house.” 

“Indeed we will leave the house!” Kate said. “Henry, 
I shall take Pearl Jane away at once. That child shan’t 
be mixed up in any police affair! You stay here, Henry, 
and find Tommy, and see the thing through. I’ll find 
Pearl Jane and take her home.” 

“Better not,” the young man advised. He was a lawyer 
named Jarvis, and he seemed to speak with authority, 

“Why?” asked Kate. 

“It’s a pretty grave matter to leave a house where a 
mysterious death has occurred—after you’re ordered not 
to.” 

“But that’s only Doctor Gannett’s order. Not the 
law.” 

“You’d better stay,” Jarvis advised. “You’ll be inter- 





WHO WAS SHE? 


37 


viewed even if you run away—so why not face the music 
here ?” 

“I don’t mind for myself,” Kate said, slowly, “I’m think¬ 
ing of Pearl Jane.” 

“Little Miss Cutler?” Jarvis asked. “Where is she?” 

“I don’t know—I can’t seem to find anybody. It’s queer 
where Tommy can be. And Charley—where can he have 
gone to?” 

“Perhaps they’ve gone up to the smoking room by the 
back stairs,” Post suggested. “They’re doubtless there— 
because—because they aren’t anywhere else,” he concluded 
a little lamely. 

“I didn’t know there was a back stairs,” Kate exclaimed. 
“Let us go that way.” 

“Do you want to go back to—to that room?” Post 
said. 

“Yes, I do,” Kate returned. “I want to stand by 
Tommy if there’s going to be trouble. But more, I want 
to find that child.” 

“Perhaps she’s up there,” Jarvis suggested. 

“Let’s go and see.” 

But before they could start, an officer came in at the 
front door. 

“What’s up?” he inquired, not greatly disturbed at the 
fact that all the people he saw were in fantastic costumes. 
Washington Square policemen are not easily surprised. 

They told him, and Kate suggested the back stairs. 

“No,” he said, and strode up the main staircase. 

He stormed his way through the shuddering crowd, who 
willingly fell back for his passing, and opened the door of 
the smoking room. 

Crossing to where the still figure lay, he gave a brief but 
comprehending glance at it, then after a few low words to 
Doctor Gannett, he said, “I’ll telephone the Precinct Sta- 




38 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


tion—they’ll send men. Where’s the boss—the man of the 
house? Locke, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, do you know him?” Gannett asked. 

“By sight, I see him now and then. Nice quiet chap. 
Who’s the lady?” 

“We don’t know. But she was one of Mr. Locke’s 
guests.” 

“All right. Now, look here, nobody must leave this 
house. Nobody must touch the body. Nobody more must 
come into this room. I don’t say that woman was mur¬ 
dered—but it looks like that to me. So, doctor, go out and 
tell the people what I say—and hold them.” 

But Doctor Gannett found this no easy task. 

Heedless of the law’s commands, several insisted loudly 
that they were going home. Others slipped away stealthily. 
But many stayed because they were afraid to disobey 
orders, and some because they were held by curiosity. 

Of course, all masks w T ere removed, and some of those less 
interested in the “accident” as it w T as still called, began to 
drift toward the supper room. 

Llere they found the waiters had fled in terror, and they 
helped themselves to the viands. 

“Shall I send the orchestra away?” Post asked the 
policeman, and he was permitted to do so. 

“It’s too dreadful,” he said to Kate, “to have that jazz 
band sitting there silent.” 

“Where’s Tommy?” was Kate’s only reply. 

“I’m going to find him,” Post said, resolutely, and 
started on a systematic search of the premises. 

And then the police came. 

“I’m Inspector Dickson,” one said, apparently speaking 
to any one w r ho would listen. “Who’s in charge here?” 

No one answered, until Doctor Gannett said, “It’s Mr. 
Locke’s house, but we haven’t located him yet.” 



WHO WAS SHE? 


39 


Dickson gave him a sharp look, but asked no more 
questions. 

Accompanied by two of his companions, a special detec¬ 
tive and a deputy from the office of the Chief Medical 
Examiner, he went upstairs at once, while two plain clothes 
men took charge of the halls and stairway. 

“Get busy, Doctor Babcock,” Dickson said, and the 
examiner proceeded to his duty. 

Detective Hutchins joined in the examination, and in 
only a few minutes they announced that the victim had 
been killed by the bronze book-end, thrown by some one 
else. 

“Here’s the other book-end on this table,” Hutchins 
said; “presumably, the assailant stood here and threw the 
thing. It may be, however, that he lifted it from the table 
and moved nearer to his victim and merely hit her with 
it-” 

“No; it was thrown,” Doctor Babcock declared. “The 
nature of this abrasion on the temple proves that. It 
wasn’t such a very hard blow—as it must have been, if 
effected nearer by. Indeed, if it hadn’t struck just where 
it did, it would have made a bad bruise, but needn’t neces¬ 
sarily have been fatal.” 

“But it was fatal,” pursued the detective, “and it was 
the work of another. Therefore, it is homicide, and we 
must proceed accordingly. Where’s the man of the 
house?” 

Nobody answered, and the police all showed their 
surprise. 

“Has he vamoosed?” asked Hutchins quickly. “Hunt 
for him, Briggs. You know him, don’t you?” 

Briggs, the officer first called in, said that he did, and he 
went on his search. 

“Now until he’s found, somebody must be at the head of 




40 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


things,” Hutchins went on. He went to the door of the 
studio and looked at the group of people remaining there. 

Though the detective seemed unimpressed, it was a 
strange sight. The motley crowd, in the gay garments of 
the masquerade, yet all showing anxious, curious faces, 
was incongruous, even grotesque. 

Young girls shuddered and drew nearer their escorts or 
the elder women. The men were deeply concerned—they 
understood better what must be before them. 

“Lentil Mr. Locke appears,” Hutchins said, in a stern 
voice, “who is his nearest relative or friend? Who will 
represent him for the moment?” 

For a minute no one replied, and then Jarvis, the lawyer, 
said, “Not in any legal way, but as a friend of Mr. Locke, 
you may report to me. I am Rodman Jarvis—here is my 
card.” 

The man had come in the guise of a Troubadour. He 
had laid aside, with his mask, his feathered hat and his 
guitar. But he had brought his pocketbook and as he 
proffered the card, he seemed all conscious of his unusual 
costume. Nor was it unbecoming. A tall, well set-up 
young fellow, he was quite at ease, and deeply interested 
in the proceedings. 

Hutchins looked at him steadily. 

“You’re a friend of Mr. Locke?” 

“Yes.” 

“An intimate friend?” 

“I shouldn’t put it that way. But a good pal, and ready 
to do anything I can for him.” 

“Very well. Stay by me. Now, who of all you present 
can identify the lady who has been—injured? Surely 
some one here knows her.” 

No one responded, except those who declared they did 
not know her. 



WHO WAS SHE? 


41 


“You saw her only when masked,” Hutchins said, 
reflectively. 

“Yes,” put in a vivacious young woman, “and besides 
her mask she had about seven veils round her face and 
throat! I might know her if I saw her face.” 

This was a new idea to the detective. 

“True,” he said; “I shall have to ask you all to look at 
her. At least, until some one can identify her.” 

It was soon arranged, and by permission of the 
examiner the body was laid on the divan in the smoking 
room. Hutchins took good care to shut olT by chairs the 
part of the room where it had lain, for it seemed to his 
quick eye there was much to be learned from the conditions 
there. Already he had noted a cigarette end, and many 
spangles. 

But he had much to do, and such investigation could 
wait. 

Dickson and the detective directed the line of people 
that must pass by the divan and tell all they knew con¬ 
cerning the pathetic figure that lay there. 

The scene was appalling. Girls became hysterical, 
women sobbed violently, and even the men were deeply 
agitated. The masquerade costumes only accented the 
horror, and like a strange, weird pageant the line filed by. 

Toward the last came Kate Vallon and Henry Post. 

They had not found Tommy, neither had they found 
Chinese Charley. 

And, worst of all, they had not found Pearl Jane. 

Post tried to comfort Kate by saying that he was sure 
the girl had run away home, but Kate was not so sure of 
this. 

They could only wonder at the absence of all those they 
had searched for. 



42 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


As these two reached the divan each looked long and 
earnestly at the dead woman. 

They saw a sweet young face, pretty and natural. The 
contusion did not show, as the doctors had turned the head 
on that side. 

The eyes were closed, and the cheeks showed a slight 
tinge of rouge. The lips were not made up at all, and were 
already pale. 

The costume was exquisite. The finest type of Oriental 
magnificence, with full silk trousers, a voluminous tunic, 
dainty bodice and jacket, all of rich, soft silk, in gorgeous 
coloring and ornamented w'ith glittering sequins and mock 
jewels. 

On her hands beside a wedding ring, were several gaudy 
paste gems, quite evidently part of the costume. All of 
her head-gear had been removed and her hair, though 
disordered somewhat, was soft and plentiful. 

On her feet were jeweled and embroidered Turkish 
slippers and fine silk stockings. 

“How lovely!” was Kate’s involuntary exclamation. 
“But, who is she?” 

“I’ve not the faintest idea,” Post said; “I’ve never seen 
her before, I’m sure of that. And I don’t believe Tommy 
ever did, either—she isn’t our sort, Kate. As to Tommy’s 
skipping—nonsense—he’s taken Pearl Jane home—that’s 
where he’s gone.” 

And no one on the line of spectators knew the unfortu¬ 
nate woman. 

Hutchins was shrewd and he watched eagerly to find 
some one who seemed to dissemble, or who seemed ill at ease 
beyond the natural horror of the occasion. But he found 
none such, and after the ordeal was over, he was convinced, 
that so far he had neither any clue to the identity of the 
criminal nor the victim. 





WHO WAS SHE? 


43 


Dickson sighed. He was up against a hard case, and the 
odds were against him. His men were searching high and 
low for the man of the house, and for his servant. He 
didn’t believe that Locke had merely gone to escort a 
guest home. If he were the right sort of a man he would 
have sent some one with her and remained himself at his 
own home. 

Hutchins agreed to this, and leaving the room by the 
back way he began a search himself. 

As he closed the door behind him, his quick ears caught 
a stifled sob. 

It seemed to come from a closed closet, and, throwing 
opened the door and, striking a match, simultaneously, he 
discovered some one huddled among a lot of canvases and 
artists’ odds and ends. 

“Come out! Who are you?” he ordered, sharply, but 
changed his tone as he clutched at the arm of a trembling 
girl. 

“Oh,” she sobbed, “oh, what shall I do ?” 

“Do, miss? Why, just come out, and tell me who you 
are. Don’t be afraid of me—if you’ve nothing else to be** 
afraid of! What’s your name?” 

“I’m Miss Cutler,” and, somehow, meeting this crisis 
seemed to give her back her nerve. “I was—I was fright¬ 
ened—so—so I hid.” 

“I see you did,” Hutchins remarked, dryly, his own sym¬ 
pathy for her waning, as she recovered her poise. “Why 
did you do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“Hide—of course. You didn’t do anything else—did 

you? Nothing wrong, now?” 

“No, of course I didn’t!” she began gravely, but broke 

down again and sobbed. 

“May I go home? Oh, please let me go home.” 




44 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“You can go pretty soon. I see you were at the 
party.” 

The Dutch Peasant costume, though still effective, was 
crumpled and wet with tears, and, though Hutchins’ heart 
almost stood still as he saw it, there was certainly a small 
stain on the sleeve that looked like blood. 

Without another word he drew her quickly into the den, 
and took her straight to the divan. 

“Miss Cutler,” he said, as he grasped her arm firmly, 
“did you kill that woman?” 

“No !” she shrieked, and fainted away. 

“No need to be brutal, Hutchins,” Doctor Babcock 
cried, as he took the unconscious girl into his charge. 

“Why, it’s Pearl Jane!” cried Miss Vallon. “Henry, 
here she is ! Where did you find her?” 

Kate spoke to the doctor, not having heard Hutchins’ 
question to the girl. 

“She was hiding in a back closet,” the detective 
answered her. “I must hold her—till she can explain 
some matters. Keep her by you, Doctor. Or let Dickson 
do it. I’m off to find Locke now.” And again the 
detective started down those back stairs. 

“Well,” Dickson looked sadly at his wits’ end. “This is 
sure a mysterious case. Here’s a dead woman and nobody 
knows who she is, or who did for her. Next, there’s nobodv 
to make a report to—except that lawyer chap—and he 
seems to me a little hit too smart. Yes, he is, a little too 
smart.” 

Dickson was talking to the Medical Examiner, who had 
succeeded in restoring Pearl Jane to her senses, but 
wouldn’t yet allow her to talk. 

They were in the smoking room, which they kept cleared 
of all save those they wished to interview. The studio 



WHO WAS SHE? 


45 


and halls were guarded and policemen were stationed out¬ 
side the house, which no one was as yet allowed to leave or 
enter. 

An officer from outside came to Dickson. 

“Here’s a go,” he said; “there’s a swell car out there, 
and the chauffeur says he has orders to wait for his missus, 
and she hasn’t come out and he wants to know if she can 
be let to go.” 

“Who is his mistress?” 

“Mrs. Barham—Mrs. Andrew Barham.” 

“Oh, the society people. I’ve heard the name. Well, 
get Mrs. Barham from the studio and let me speak to 
her.” 

In the studio a plain clothes man was industriously tak¬ 
ing the names and addresses of the guests, preparatory to 
dismissing some of them at least. 

As yet he had not the name of Mrs. Barham, and no one 
responded to his query for it. 

“Maybe she went home,” some one said. “A few did 

go.” 

“She would have gone in her car, then,” the officer 
argued; “the chauffeur has been waiting here since before 
eleven.” 

“What time is it now?” 

“Eleven-thirty. I say,” he jerked his head over his 
shoulder, “maybe that’s her!” 

“Get the chauffeur up here,” the other said, gravely. 

And when he arrived he was asked concerning the cos¬ 
tume his mistress w r ore when he brought her to the house. 

“I don’t know, sir,” Louis said; “she had on a large 
dark cloak.” 

“Don’t waste time,” said Dickson, shortly. “Show him 
the body.” 




46 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


So Louis, the chauffeur of Madeleine Barham was taken 
in to look at the still figure in the Oriental garb. 

“It is Madame,” he said, startled into a scared 
trembling. 

“Her name?” 

“Mrs. Andrew Barham.” 



CHAPTER IV 


AN UNKNOWN GUEST 

Sobs were checked and hysterics forgotten in an intense 
and burning curiosity. 

Mrs. Andrew Barham—here—at Tommy Locke’s 
party! 

It could scarcely be believed. 

They stared at the imperturbable chauffeur. It was 
plain to be seen that the man was deeply moved, but his 
training prevented any expression of grief or excitement. 

“Does any one here know Mr. Barham?” Hutchins 
inquired. 

He stood in the doorway between the studio and the den, 
or smoking room. Indeed, the interest had become so 
intense it was almost impossible to set a barrier to such as 
insisted on forcing a way. 

But the detective had guards watching the places and 
people he was most interested in. 

No one did—that was clear. And no one knew Mrs. 
Barham personally, though nearly all had heard her 
name. 

“But to be here, she must have been somebody’s friend,” 
Hutchins persisted. “I find that there were perhaps fifty 
invited guests—and I’m told there were perhaps about 
sixty-five or seventy people here. So many invited guests 
brought friends or asked them. It may be that was the 
way Mrs. Barham came—so who brought her?” 

It was impossible to get any other than negative replies. 

The only conclusion to be drawn was that Mrs. Barham 

came to the party as the guest of some one who had 

47 



48 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


already gone home. Which added a further inexplicable 
mystery. Why should the person or persons who brought 
Mrs. Barham run away in this emergency? 

Why should Mrs. Barham have come at all, save as a 
happy guest in quest of pleasure? Could she have been 
trapped there? 

No; for she came from her own home in her own car. 
Moreover, she wore a handsome and expensive costume, 
quite evidently in view of the masquerade festivity. 

And, though no one could tell the exact time she arrived, 
several agreed that she had been at the house at least an 
hour before the tragedy was discovered. 

Hutchins instructed his men to get from Miss Vallon a 
complete list of all the people invited, whether they had 
come or not. 

Then he said, “Next, I suppose, we must notify Mr. 
Barham. How shall we best do it, Dickson?” 

“Telephone, of course. Is Mr. Barham at home, 
Louis?” 

“I don’t know, sir. I am only chauffeur of Madame’s 
car.” 

“Who are in the family?” 

“Only Mr. and Mrs. Barham, and Mrs. Selden, the 
mother of Madame.” 

“What’s the number?” 

Louis told, and then Dickson said, “You do it, Hutchins. 
Be as decent as you can. You’ve more natural tact than 
I have.” 

“Is there any other telephone?” Hutchins asked, look¬ 
ing at the gaping crowd, in their carnival dress. 

“Yes,” Post told him, “in Mr. Locke’s bedroom. I’ll 
show you.” 

They went to the bedroom and Post stood by, while 
LIutchins called the Barham house. 



AN UNKNOWN GUEST 


49 


A servant answered, and the detective asked for Mr. 
Barham. 

“He’s in bed and asleep; shall I call his valet ?” 

“No ; waken him. It’s an important matter.” 

And in a few moments a voice said, “Andrew Barham 
speaking.” 

“Is—is your wife at home, Mr. Barham?” 

Hutchins hadn’t intended to begin that way, but he was 
a sensitive sort, and he dreaded making the bare announce¬ 
ment of his news. 

“Who is this? Why do you ask?” 

“It is a grave matter. Kindly reply.” 

“No, then, she is not. It is now quarter of twelve. She 
is out with some friends.” 

“I have bad news for you, Mr. Barham. This is the 
police speaking—Detective Hutchins. Your wife is here— 
at the friend’s house—injured, sir—fatally injured.” 

Hutchins heard a slight gasp, and then a hurried, “I 
will get there as quickly as I can. At Mrs. Gardner’s?” 

“Mrs. Gardner’s! No. At Mr. Locke’s!” 

“Where?” The question rang out like a shot. “Who is 
Mr. Locke?” 

“That’s where she is, sir. Mr. Thomas Locke, Wash¬ 
ington Square.” 

“My wife at Mr. Locke’s! I cannot understand—but 
never mind, man, I’ll be right down there. Give me the 
exact address—and stay—what is the injury—tell me a 
word or two-” 

“She hit her head—sir—really—I think you’d better 
come along at once. It’s a party—a masquerade 
party-” 

“Are you crazy? My wife isn’t at any masquerade 
party!” 

“Yes, she is—come on, please.” 








50 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“I will. Wait a minute—must I face the whole crowd 
of revelers?” 

“I understand. No, Mr. Barham. Come—let me see— 
come to the front door but ask the man in charge to bring 
you up the back stairway.” 

“Oh, it needn’t be as secret as that—but—I can’t seem 
to think coherently. Washington Square! I’ll be there in 
record time.” 

With his usual efficiency and avoidance of all waste 
motion, Andrew Barham had summoned his valet, and his 
chauffeur, and had ordered his car while he was getting 
into his clothes. 

Prall, the valet, came in to find him already almost 
entirely dressed. 

With a few quick, somewhat jerky words, he explained 
the situation to his trusted servant, saying, “Come with 
me, Prall, I think it’s very serious.” 

Awed by the look on his master’s face, Prall bowed a 
silent assent, and in the shortest possible time, they were 
speeding down the Avenue, careful only to avoid a hold up 
by the traffic squad. 

“Did you ever know of Mrs. Barham’s going to any 
place on Washington Square, Prall?” 

“Never, sir.” 

And Andrew Barham wondered. 

Madeleine had said he was always wondering, but surely 
he had never before had such occasion for wonderment. 
Madeleine, at a fancy dress ball—in Washington Square, 
and—hurt—didn’t that man say fatally hurt? 

To be sure, Madeleine went where she chose—she had 
her own friends—but Barham knew who they were, if he 
didn’t know them personally; and they were of her own 
circles, most certainly not of a Washington Square type. 

So he wondered, blindly, and at last they were there. 






AN UNKNOWN GUEST 


51 


Barham hurried up the steps, quite forgetting to ask for 
the back staircase. 

In fact, the sight of several policemen about, so took 
away his wits, he thought of little else for the instant. 

Before Barham arrived, Hutchins had arranged things 
to give the least possible shock. Henry Post had been put 
on duty downstairs to see that no one took advantage of 
the detective’s absence to get away. Pearl Jane had been 
ensconced in Locke’s bedroom with Kate Vallon to look 
after her. 

In the room with Mrs. Barham’s body were only the 
members of the Police Force, Doctor Gannett and Rodman 
Jarvis, who still expressed his willingness to act for Locke 
in any way he could. 

Chinese Charley was still missing, and the officer who 
admitted Barham took him at once to the back stairs. 

“It’s very bad, sir, and there’s a horde of curiosity 
seekers in the studio. This way, sir.” 

Barham had directed Prall to accompany him, as he 
might need service of some sort. 

The officer stumbled a little on the narrow dark stairs, 
and Barham impatiently passed him, exclaiming, “Hurry, 
man—I must see for myself !” 

The first time, Prall observed to himself, he had ever 
seen the master excited. “And small wonder,” he added, 
as he himself began to feel a sense of horror. 

Knowing better than to try to break such news slowly, 
Hutchins merely greeted Andrew Barham with a grave 
nod, and said, “There she is, sir.” 

And Andrew Barham looked down on the body of his 
wdfe—whom he had seen last at dinner that same night— 
now, in gaudy array, and cold in death. 

The man seemed turned to stone. At first his face 
showed incredulity, stark unbelief—then as he realized the 




52 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


truth of what his eyes told him he seemed to paralyze—he 
was utterly incapable of speech or action. 

A fine looking man, the detective saw. Straight, 
strong, vital. His hair was light brown—almost golden— 
and had a curly wave in it that gave charm to an other¬ 
wise stern cast of features. 

His eyes were gray-blue, and now they were so blank, so 
dazed, as to have almost no expression whatever. 

It was the man, Prall, who moved first. 

He had stood beside his master, wondering, staring, and 
then all at once he broke into deep sobs and turned away to 
hide his face. 

It seemed to galvanize the other, and Andrew Barham 
gave a strong shudder as he tried to pull himself together. 

“It is my wife,” he said, turning to the detective. 
“What do you know about it? How came she here? We 
do not know this place.” 

“Mrs. Barham must have known, sir. She came in her 
own car, with her own chauffeur.” 

“Louis ! Is he here?” 

“Yes, Mr. Barham.” 

“It is a mystery. I do not understand at all. But this 
is my wife—and—she is dead. Was she—was it an 
accident?” 

“We do not think so.” 

And then Doctor Gannett gave his account of the finding 
of the body on the floor- 

“On the floor?” Barham interrupted. “Just where?” 

He was shown, and he wondered more than ever. 

“With this book-end,” he mused, “this bronze Sphinx. 
You say it is not possible that it was an accident? That 
she fell on it—she was on the floor-” 

“No”; and Doctor Babcock added his own testimony to 
Gannett’s. 







AN UNKNOWN GUEST 


53 


Barham drew a long sigh, and brushed his hand across 
his eyes. 

“Then,” he said, and he looked at the policemen in turn, 
as if arraigning them, “then you conclude it was— 
murder?” 

“We do, sir,” Dickson answered. 

“Then move heaven and earth to find out who did it! 
Spare no time, pains or expense. Who would—who could 
have reason to kill a woman like that? But, strangest of 
all is her presence in this place, that has yet to be ex¬ 
plained. Ever}dhing has yet to be explained. Are any 
of her friends here—in the other room?” 

“No, Mr. Barham, everybody in the other room declares 
he or she never saw Mrs. Barham before.” 

Again the man seemed so blankly bewildered as to be on 
the verge of losing his mind. 

But he wasn’t. Andrew Barham was unutterably 
amazed, astounded—but he wasn’t yet dazed. His mind 
was thinking wfith lightning quickness. 

“Who did it?” he demanded again. “You must have 
some suspicion—some slight clue!” 

“We have no suspicion, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins told 
him, “and as to clues or evidence, we’ve not been able to go 
into those things yet. Think, it only happened less than 
two hours ago.” 

“Less than two hours ago! Then why wasn’t I told 
sooner?” 

“Because nobody knew who she was.” 

“Nobody knew my wife! In a house where she had come 
as a guest!” 

“No, nobody knew her.” 

“The host? Didn’t he know her?” 

“The host—Mr. Locke, cannot be found.” 

Andrew Barham dropped into a chair. 





54 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Do you know you are telling a very strange story to 
me?” 

“It is a strange story, Mr. Barham. But it is all true. 
Mr. Locke cannot be found—nor can Charley.” 

“Who is Charley?” 

“A Chinese bo} T —Locke’s servant.” 

“Do you think it might be, then, that my wife came to 
the wrong house? I have heard of such mistakes.” 

“That might be. But this is the address she gave her 
own chauffeur.” 

“May I see Louis?” 

The chauffeur was brought in and told his tale with the 
same immovable calm he always displayed. 

He addressed himself to Barham. 

“Madame ordered her car for nine-thirty,” he said. 

“She bade me drive her here. I did so. When she 
alighted, she told me to be here for her, a little before 
eleven, as she was then going to Madame Gardner’s. I 
was here shortly before eleven and waited a little distance 
away. While I was waiting, there seemed to be some com¬ 
motion—several people left this house hurriedly, and some 
policemen came.” 

“You sat still and waited?” put in Hutchins, hastily. 

“Why not? It was the order. And I knew not but it 
was apartments and the police had naught to do with the 
home Madame visited. Yes, I waited, until maybe half 
after eleven, then the commotion grew more—and I began 
to feel fear. I came to the door and asked for Madame. 
The rest is known.” 

Louis was the perfect French chauffeur. His manner 
and mien showed just the right shade of grief, without 
being unduly or presumptuously personal. 

Hutchins watched him out of the corner of his eye. He 
didn’t always trust French chauffeurs. 



AN UNKNOWN GUEST 


55 


Barham, who seemed to read the detective’s mind, said, 
“You may depend on Louis’s story. He is absolutely 
reliable.” 

There was a silence. Andrew Barham was thinking 
deeply. 

At last he said, “What must be the procedure? I am at 
a loss to know what I am to do.” 

For the first time Rodman Jarvis spoke. 

“It is a most unusual case—we all see that. But, 
speaking as a lawyer, I want to ask you. Doctor Babcock, 
as Medical Examiner, if you can’t waive certain technical 
considerations and let Mr. Barham remove his wife’s body 
to-night—if he wishes to do so.” 

Barham gave the young man a grateful look. 

“That is just what I do want,” he said, “but not unless 
it is a proper and legal proceeding. I am shocked and 
horrified enough as it is, without leaving her here any 
longer than is absolutely necessary. If she could be taken 
to the Funeral Director’s—or to my home—yet, stay, Mr. 
Dickson, nothing—no consideration of my feelings or any¬ 
thing else, shall be done that will put a straw in the way of 
finding the murderer. That must And shall be done!” 

His voice almost rang out in this decision, and 
Hutchins reassured him quickly. 

“No, Mr. Barham, that won’t matter, that way. It’s 
only that it’s a bit hasty to turn over the body to the rela¬ 
tives before a step has been taken to solve the mystery. 
Yet, it can be of no help to retain the body. The doctor’s 
reports are full and complete, and there is little or no evi¬ 
dence to be learned from the body itself. If necessary to 
see it again that can be done at the undertaker’s—better 
there than at your home. And if an autopsy is held-” 

Hutchins checked himself. He was expert in trying to 





56 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


carry on his detective work and yet spare the feelings 
of the bereaved ones, but he frequently fell into error. 

However, Andrew Barham took it rationally. 

“Yes, Mr. Hutchins, if an autopsy is indicated, it can be 
performed. May I then send for the funeral people? 
May my man Prall telephone for them? I have ahead of 
me the difficult task of breaking this news to my wife’s 
mother. And, as you can understand, it has shaken me 
terribly.” 

One and all they admired him. As man to man, Barham 
had a fine, a sensible attitude. It was plain to be seen how 
shocked and grieved he was, it w r as clearly evident that he 
was holding on to his composure by mere will power, and 
every one present wanted to favor him in every possible 
way. 

“You know where to find me,” he went on. “Here is my 
business card—I am a consulting engineer, and though I 
have several business engagements out of the city, for the 
immediate future, I shall, of course, cancel them all. Prall, 
call the funeral company, and ask them to come here as 
soon as may be.” 

“There’s no use asking you any more about Mrs. Bar¬ 
ham’s movements this evening,” Dickson said, “for you 
know even less than we do. You frequently spent your 
evenings in different places?” 

“Yes,” and Barham showed no embarrassment at this 
query. “We had not altogether the same tastes, and Mrs. 
Barham had her own car and latchkey, as I have. So we 
came and went as we chose.” 

“When did you see her last, Mr. Barham?” 

“At dinner this evening. We dined alone—with only 
my mother-in-law. After dinner, Mrs. Barham w T ent to 
her rooms to dress for some party, and I w T ent to my Club.” 

“What Club was that, sir?” 




AN UNKNOWN GUEST 


57 


“The Players’. Don’t hesitate to ask all the direct 
questions you wish. I know how necessary they are.” 

But this willingness seemed to take away Dickson’s 
desire to make inquiries, and he only said, “There’s plenty 
of time ahead for all that.” 

“There wfill be an inquest?” Barham asked. 

“Yes; but don’t feel obliged to attend, Mr. Barham, 
unless you like. I can arrange so that you needn’t.” 

“Oh, yes—I propose to help with this search for the 
criminal. And I can do it better if I follow the course of 
the inquiries. But I can do it better yet, if I can sometimes 
follow them unobserved. I will, therefore, if I see fit, sit 
in the back of the room, or some obscure corner. You 
see—” he set his fine white teeth together in a determined 
way—“you see, somebody did this thing—you are sure—” 
he broke off suddenly to say to Doctor Babcock, “you are 
positive it could not have been an accident?” 

“Positive.” 

“I ask again, because I didn’t see the body when it was 
on the floor. And—I confess I would rather it had been 
an accident. Who could have wanted to put an end to the 
life of my young and beautiful Madeleine?” 

It was the first time he had spoken thus—as if he were 
alone—but he quickly resumed his outer manner of com¬ 
posure. 

“Then if you are sure, there was a murderer—find 
him!” 

His tone w r as that of an ultimatum, his air one of 
finality, and rising, he began to pace the room. 

Nor did he speak again until he was informed that the 
undertaker’s men had arrived. 

Then he superintended the removal of the body himself, 
he went downstairs without so much as a glance at the few 
curious ones who w T ere rude enough to peer out from the 








58 


MOKE LIVES THAN ONE 


studio door at him, and after the box that held the wife he 
had loved was put in place, he went home in Madeleine’s 
car, leaving Prall to go with the undertaker in Barham’s 
own car. 

“Don’t arrange for the funeral, of course, Prall,” he 
said, as a final order. “Just see that everything is done 
right, and when you can, go home and go to bed. I’ll look 
after myself.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Prall. 

The police officers looked at each other. 

“There’s a man for you!” Dickson said, and Hutchins 
heartily agreed. 

“He’s a real man,” Jarvis put in. “He thanked me for 
what I had done, with tears in his eyes, and I haven’t done 
anything.” 

“Yes, you did, Mr. Jarvis,” Babcock said; “I should 
have kept that woman here all night, if you hadn’t turned 
up. But it’s a relief to the poor man to get that part of 
it over with, I know. Now to get rid of the bunch in the 
next room and to get rid of them properly. They ought 
to be interrogated as well as just to get their home 
addresses.” 

“They have been, mostly,” Jarvis said. “I slipped in 
there while you were talking with Mr. Barham, and the men 
were working fast. Mr. Barham was completely bowled 
over, wasn’t he? I can’t get his face out of my mind.” 

“Yes, and he took it like a man,” Doctor Gannett said. 
“I have had to tell many a man that his wife was dead, and 
I never saw a braver attitude. And he loved her—you 
could tell that the way he looked at her. I could.” 

Then the police, by rather slow degrees, dismissed the 
waiting guests, and the Clowns, the Knights, the Juliets 




AN UNKNOWN GUEST 


59 


and the Winters with their cloaks drawn about their gaudy 
array, went out into the quiet Square. 

“Do you want to stay here all night, Miss Vallon?” 
Hutchins asked, kindly. “Would you rather keep the 
young lady here? I must tell you that I have to question 
her to-morrow morning—sorry, but it can’t be helped.” 

“Oh, no, indeed!” Kate cried. “I wouldn’t stay here 
for anything! I never want to enter this house again! 
But I will take Miss Cutler home with me, and you may 
see her at my house whenever you wish.” 

Hutchins agreed to this, and Henry Post, looking very 
weary, came to escort the two girls home. 

“I’m about all in,” he admitted; “I never was so done 

up.” 

“What do you think—” Kate began. 

“I’m too tired to think at all,” he returned, and they 
went home in almost complete silence. 



CHAPTER V 


HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 

“Now,” Hutchins said, “we can get to work on a real 
investigation. Of conditions, I mean. Had to do up 
the possible witnesses first. But they were all impossible 
witnesses! I never saw a lot of people who knew less—or 
pretended to.” 

“First,” Inspector Dickson remarked, calmly, “we’ll 
eat. There’s a fine layout in the pantry, and we may as 
well put some of it to use. Call in Briggs and any others 
of our men.” 

So, instead of funeral baked meats coldly furnishing 
forth a marriage table, the pleasant little supper ordered 
for Tommy Locke’s guests regaled the hearty members 
of the Police Force. 

Afterward the two principals made a tour of the place. 

In the main, they found little of interest. The usual 
furniture of a bachelor’s studio quarters; of a man, ap¬ 
parently neither rich nor poverty-stricken. The appoint¬ 
ments were plain and far from being over-abundant, yet 
the place was comfortable. 

Small gilded chairs from the caterer’s had, of course, 
been hired for the occasion, as had a long hatrack in the 
hall and a similar one in the ladies’ dressing room. 

This room interested Hutchins, being, as it was, Locke’s 
bedroom. 

“It ought to give us a line on the man’s personality,” 
the detective said, hopefully. 

But it was not very indicative. The clothing in the 

wardrobe and the simple toilet articles only gave evidence 

60 


HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 


61 


of a decently tidy man of moderate tastes in every way. 

“Colorless chap,” Hutchins said, disgustedly; “hardest 
kind in the world to trace. Now, if he had frisky pictures 
on his walls, or Bolshevik books hidden in his dresser, 
we might look for something decided. But these every- 
dayish, plain American citizen fellows—where are you?” 

“If he’s an artist, he ought to have some personality,” 
Dickson suggested. 

“Probably has, as to temperament and all that. But 
I don’t believe he’s much of an artist—I’ve never heard 
the name—have you ?” 

“No; but there are hundreds of artists within two blocks 
of this place whose names haven’t been heard around the 
world—as yet. Let’s look in the bathroom—may sur¬ 
prise his secrets there.” 

“Nixy!” and Hutchins looked his discouragement. “I 
deduce that he is a man who uses soap and water, who 
shaves himself with a safety razor, and uses pumice stone 
on his teeth.” 

The last after a peep into a small jar on the glass 
shelf. 

“Well, then to the scene of the crime next.” 

“You see,” Hutchins explained, as he drew away the 
protecting chairs, “I fenced this place off because I 
thought those hoodlums would trample it, like cattle on 
a picnic field. But it seems to be intact. Yet I daresay 
it will show up just about nothing.” 

“Mostly spangles,” Dickson observed, looking at the 
glittering specks on the rug. 

“Are they from that rig of Mrs. Barham’s?” 

“No”; Dickson knew more about these things than 
Hutchins. “No, hers were iridescent—these are silver- 
colored—tin, probably.” 

He picked up a few. 






62 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Save them, anyway—put them in an envelope—gather 
all you can. Probably they are off of more than one 
gown. Now, here’s a long white glove—but that might 
belong to anybody.” 

“Save it—it’s a possible clue. Well, here are two 
cigarette stubs—women never care where they throw them ! 
and here are three hair-pins—all different. Here’s a 
man’s glove, a dagger-” 

“A dagger!” 

“Oh, just a tinsel one—out of some Spanish girl’s 
hair—it will bend if you look at it.” 

“Keep it. It shows the presence of your Spanish girl 
on the scene.” 

“Probably before the crime. You see, Dickson, this 
place, near the divan and table, was a favorite lounging 
spot, and they all drifted in here between dances. Then 
it was doubtless during a dance that the crime occurred, 
when this room was practically deserted, and also when 
that Jazz racket would drown any sounds.” 

“That’s right so far, Hutchins. But get all the scraps 
here you can—for among them must be the clues left by 
the murderer—if any.” 

“Yes, if any! Well, here’s a fan and a mask-” 

“A mask!” 

“Yes, why’s that strange?” 

“Because no one had as yet unmasked! It isn’t Mrs. 
Barham’s—she had hers on when they found her.” 

“Oh, it’s an extra then. It’s just a tiny black domino, 
with a lace frill-” 

“A woman’s, then?” 

“Not necessarily. The men who wore fancy-fiddly cos¬ 
tumes, like cavaliers or troubadours, wore this sort of 
mask.” 

“Maybe it’s young Jarvis’s. He was a troubadour.” 







HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 


63 


“All right, we’ll keep all the flotsam and jetsam—there’s 
nothing else, but a few beads and a small, trumpery vanity 
case—not a gold one. 

“Mostly women’s stuff.” 

“Yes, but men don’t have many loose trifles to shed. 
Now, what about this white streak on the rug? About 
six inches long-” 

“Looks like face powder—probably from that vanity 
case.” 

“Maybe. Now, here’s one spot of blood—poor lady. 
There was little of that—it was contusion rather than 
abrasion, though the skin was broken.” 

“Reconstruct, Hutchins. Can you see the murderer 
standing here—or here?” 

Dickson seriously moved from spot to spot. 

“No,” Hutchins declared positively, “he stood about 
here. The other side of the table from his victim. I see 
them quarreling—perhaps she was repelling his advances 
—and he, in a sudden, uncontrollable fit of anger at some¬ 
thing she said, fired the thing—almost involuntarily.” 

“Yes, it must have been something like that. Now, do 
you suppose it was Locke?” 

“Who else?” 

“Why not Charley? Orientals have strong passions.” 

“But why would a Chinese servant have anything at 
all to do with a grand society lady?” 

“I don’t know, of course, but he might have. Suppose 
he had been her butler—and she had unjustly accused 
him or discharged him—anyway, on the other hand, 
what could the grand lady have to do with an uncelebrated 
young artist?” 

“Idle speculation, all of it. Let’s take a look at our 
facts. We have the wife of Andrew Barham murdered at 






64 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


a party in the studio apartment of Thomas Locke. 
Deduction, they were acquainted.” 

“No; many guests brought uninvited friends.” 

“Then where is Locke? Unless he knew this woman, 
whether he killed her or not, why would he disappear a few 
moments after the crime?” 

“I think he w T ent away for some innocent reason- 9 

“Such as?” 

“X can’t think of any, I admit.” 

“No; he didn’t run out to get more sugar for the 
lemonade. Now, I can’t figure it out exactly, but as 
near as I can gather, the lady was killed at about ten 
or a little after. Maybe quarter after. But, at what 
must have been nearly half past ten, Briggs, the police¬ 
man on beat, saw a man who he thinks was Locke, come 
out of this house, walk down the front steps, calmly 
but quickly, and then walk rapidly over toward the 
Avenue. 

“Briggs thought nothing of it at the time—didn’t even 
think of its being Locke, for he knew of the party, but 
he’s been ruminating since and now he’s almost sure it 
was Locke.” 

“Look here, Dickson, these surenesses, after the incident 
becomes important, are to taken w r ith a grain of salt.” 

“I know it. If Briggs had been sure from the first— 
it would be different. But when he learns that Locke is 
missing, it is easy to imagine that the man he saw leave 
this house looked like him. Of course, Locke wouldn’t 
leave the house during the party, unless it was because 
he is the criminal. But I can’t suspect him on that tale 
of Briggs’, coming late, as it does. Still, it’s a thing to 
remember. What did Locke wear as a fancy garb?” 

“A Monk’s robe, I’m told, with a deep hood or cowl.” 

“He couldn’t go out in the street with that on. If 




HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 


65 


he ran away he must have left the rig in the house. Let’s 
rake for it.” 

“Oh, set one of those chaps downstairs at the job. I’m 
tired—physically—and anyway, we’ll get farther by 
thrashing this thing out verbally between us. Go on, 
you were collecting your facts.” 

Hutchins called an assistant, and bade him search the 
house for Locke’s monkish garb, and then he resumed: 

“Well, I think that constitutes my entire exhibition. 
Mrs. Barham is murdered and Locke is missing. Have 
you anything further to add?” 

“Chinese Charley is missing also.” 

“Yes. Now we have nothing that can be rightly called 
evidence, and very few, if any clues. I can’t care much 
for these ripped off spangles, and dropped gloves. The 
studio is full of such things. At a masquerade, the cos¬ 
tumes fairly rain tinsel and fringes. But I do think, 
Hutchins, that this is a big case. I do think there’s a 
lot behind the present aspect, and it is not going to be 
easy to ferret it out.” 

“Do you suppose for a minute I thought it would be?V 
the detective growled. “Well, how shall we set about 
it?” ' 

“First—and I don’t mean to do it first—but of first 
importance, is to locate Locke. Second, learn the details 
of Mrs. Barham’s past. On those two commandments 
hang all the law and the prophets.” 

“And after those two trifling errands are attended 
to, what next?” 

“Don’t be pettish, Hutchins. You’ve never had a bigger 
chance for good work. Go to it. Keep your sweepings 
and doodads, but also put in a lot of headwork and ener¬ 
getic search. As soon as possible interview the little Dutch 
girl—though I don’t think she had a hand in the crime.” 





66 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“She had her sleeve in it then—I saw a smear on it 
that looked like blood.” 

“Oh, I don’t believe it was. More likely red rouge 
or lipstick.” 

“Maybe. Anyway, I may get something about Locke 
from her and the Vallon girl. They are thick with him— 
and Henry Post is too.” 

“That’s the dope. Then as soon as it’s late enough 
for society people, I suppose you’ll go up to the Barhams’ 
house.” 

“Yes; I suppose so. Yet what can he tell me? That 
man was flabbergasted. There was no make-believe about 
his utter astonishment at finding his wife in this house.” 

“I agree to that. Now go home and get some sleep— 
unless you’d rather bunk here?” 

“I believe I will. I’ll appropriate Mr. Locke’s bedroom 
and bath and then if his nibs returns stealthily in the 
small hours, I’ll be here to receive him.” 

“Very well, I’ll go home. Get around to the Vallon 
place as early as they’ll let you, and then make for 
the Barhams’.” 

Snugly ensconced in Tommy Locke’s bed, Hutchins 
found that he could rest but he couldn’t sleep. 

So he let his mind play with his problems, building up 
fantastic air castles, in hope of striking an idea that 
might be really illuminative. 

He was strongly tempted to get up and scrape over 
the house again, but, he argued, he would probably find 
nothing, and would only prevent the resting of his tired 
nerves. 

But he vowed a mighty vow, that he would put all his 
best energies and all his most tireless and indefatigable 
efforts into this thing, and improve this chance that had 
come to him to make good. 



HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 


67 


Locke’s very convenient radium clock showed Hutchins 
four-thirty the last time he looked at it, and after that 
he fell into a deep and exhausted slumber. The two 
guards, one in the studio and one in the lower hall, dozed 
a little, too, though they didn’t really sleep. 

But at six o’clock, Hutchins’ eyes flew open wide, and 
he pulled his wits together in an effort to decide whether 
he had heard something or had dreamed it. 

Another instant, and he sensed a movement of some 
sort that suggested the near-by presence of a human 
being. 

It was scarcely a sound—more like a stealthy moving 
thing that was perceptible through feeling rather than the 
ear. 

Silently Hutchins sat up in bed. He was wide awake, 
every sense alert, and ready to spring when he deemed 
best. 

He hadn’t the slightest doubt that it was Locke, re¬ 
turning on some necessary errand, and hoping to find his 
room unoccupied. 

Then the movement came again, it became almost a 
sound, and in the faint glimmer of dawn, Hutchins saw 
a figure coming slowly, silently but steadily toward him 
as he lay in bed. 

He waited, eyes almost closed, until the person was 
within arm’s reach and then jumped up and grabbed 
him. 

A fearful shriek was the result, and in an instant 
Hutchins had snapped on the light and discovered that 
he was holding the squirming, fighting, struggling form 
of the Chinese boy, Charley. 

“You!” he exclaimed in a sudden burst of absurd disap¬ 
pointment that it was not Locke. 



68 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


At that moment the two guards came running, attracted 
by the noise. 

“Here’s the Chink,” Hutchins said; “take care of him, 
you two, till I can get dressed. Don’t hurt him.” 

Mindful of a hard day before him, Hutchins indulged 
in a refreshing bath and was pleased with the quality of 
the absent Locke’s soap and towels. 

He was half regretful after he had done this, for, he 
ruminated, “maybe I spoiled some perfectly good evidence 
by messing up this bathroom. Can’t help it now, though, 
and anyway, the Charley thing is here to clean up after 
me. Incidentally, perhaps he can rustle some breakfast 
for me! It’s an ill wind, etc., or do I mean, God tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb ?” 

He found that the two guards had cannily placated 
Charley, and had already set him to work in the kitchen, 
under threat of instant arrest if he disobeyed a single 
order. 

But obeying orders was Charley’s middle name, and 
he broke eggs and brewed coffee skillfully and not un- 
cheerfully. 

“Well, youngest scion of the Ming Dynasty, you ar¬ 
rived on time, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, always at six.” 

The Chinaman who talked pidgin or not as he chose 
looked at him calmly. He was intelligent and respectful, 
but Hutchins had planned his own line of talk. 

“What time did you go away last night?” he said, in a 
matter-of-fact way, as if a true answer were inevitable. 

“When the pollismans come.” 

His air was as matter of fact as Hutchins’ own, and 
the detective believed him—so far. 

“Why?” 

“No like. Aflaid,” 



HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 


69 


“So you ran away.” 

“Yes, I go home. Every night I go home.” 

“But you usually stay until Mr. Locke is ready to 
retire—or at least until he dismisses you?” 

“Yes—usually.” 

“What time did Mr. Locke leave last night?” 

“Maybe half-past ten—ma3^be.” 

“You saw him go? Ah, you let him out?” 

“I saw him go—I no let him out.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember—he let himself out, of course. 
Was that it?” 

But the Chinaman had sensed something wrong, and 
became secretive. 

“I no know—I no see him.” 

“Hey there—none o’ that! You said you did see 
him! You want to be arrested? Shut up in big prison? 
Bread and water? Hey? You tell the truth, now. What 
time did you see Mr. Locke go out of this house?” 

“Can’t tell”—and Charley looked sullen. “Don’t know.” 

“Well, you find out. Cudgel your memory now. Wasn’t 
it earlier than half past ten?” 

“No”; with an ugly glance. 

“All right, was it later?” 

“No,” angrily now. 

“Then, as near as you can fix the time, Mr. Locke left 
this house at about ten thirty. Alone?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You do know! Alone?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did he wear his—his big monk dress?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Then you go to prison. Take him,” Hutchins nodded 
to the guards. 




70 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Wait—wait, I tell. No, he wear regia clo’es. Even 
coat.” 

“Ah, his evening clothes. That’s better. What did 
he do with the monk dress?” 

“We found that, Mr. Hutchins,” one of the officers 
said; “it was in that junk cupboard where the painting 
things are.” 

“Did you put it there, Charley? Did you put it there 
for Mr. Locke, so he could go away just in his evening 
clothes? That was nice of you. He told you to, didn’t 
he?” 

But the Chinaman had returned to his overdone cooking, 
and Hutchins let up on him for the moment. 

“That’s it,” he said, exultantly. “Locke vamoosed, 
tossed his monk’s robe to the boy, and went out into the 
night. Took his hat from the hat stand as he passed 
out—or somebody’s hat. Connivance, you see. Now this 
boy merely ran away from the police because the police 
scared him. I’ll bet he knows nothing of what took place 
—and then this morning he returned at six o’clock from 
force of habit. 

“He crept softly into Locke’s room to see if he were 
there, not wanting to wake him. It’s all fine. But look 
out that he doesn’t get away. They’re a sly race. We’ll 
accumulate his fine-smelling breakfast, and then we’ll 
see what to do with him.” 

Hutchins was in fine spirits, and asked to see the monk’s 
robe. 

He gazed carefully at the long plain garment, with its 
attached hood, deep and peaked. 

“Put it away,” he said, to the man, “but, stay, wait a 
minute, what’s that smear?” 

The garment itself was dull brown, but on the front 



HUTCHINS INVESTIGATES 


71 


breast was an almost invisible spot that might or might 
not be blood. 

“Hard to tell,” he concluded, after a close examination, 
“but put it away very carefully. You fellows will have 
this place in your keeping right along, I suppose. Well, 
don’t let any one touch that robe till it’s tested.” 

Charley appeared at the table suddenly. 

“Caterman here.” 

“Caterman? Oh, the caterer’s man. Tell him to come 
in. And bring me another cup of coffee. It’s the best in 
the world!” 

The Chinaman smiled. Apparently conditions were 
not troubling him much. 

The man from the caterer’s came in diffidently. 

“I suppose you want to take away your chairs and 
dishes,” said Hutchins, casually. “You may do so— 
but be careful to take nothing but what is yours, and if 
you notice anything unusual or peculiar, report it. See?” 

The man who, was intelligent, seemed to understand. 

“By the way,” Hutchins said, “did any of your people 
see Mr. Locke the master of the house—er—late last 
evening?” 

“One of our men was on the door, sir.” 

“He was ! Did he see Mr. Locke go out, by any chance?” 

“He let him out.” 

“Ah. You interest me strangely! What time was 
this?” 

“About half past ten.” 

“And why is vour doorman so accurate as to the 
time?” 

“Because,” the man looked serious, “because it was 
right after that that we heard the commotion upstairs.” 

“Who do you mean by ‘we’?” 




72 MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“The waiters—and our people from Mascarelli’s. We 
were in the dining room and pantry, of course.” 

“Of course. And you have been talking the affair over 
among yourselves?” 

“Sure—why not?” 

“No reason in the world. I meant, do you know all 
about the doorman letting Mr. Locke out? And what 
do you mean by letting him out? Couldn’t he get out 
himself ?” 

“We had a regular man on the door to open it for 
the guests entering or leaving. So when Mr. Locke wanted 
to leave, of course Joe opened the door for him.” 

“And did he say anything—anything special?” 

“He only said, ‘I’ll be back in a few moments.’ That’s 
all.” 

“You’re sure of all this? You heard Joe tell it? If 
you’re sure—I don’t need Joe’s story—but perhaps I’d 
better get it anyway.” 

“No need, sir. We all talked it over and over. Joe told 
his yarn a dozen times, and every time he said that Mr. 
Locke just went out—not hurried like, but as if ordinary 
—and he said—‘Back in a few minutes.’ That’s all.” 

“And it’s a lot. And whatever time it was by the 
clock, Joe says it was shortly before the excitement be¬ 
gan?” 

“Yes, sir, he says just that.” 




CHAPTER VI 


PEARL JANE 

Not quite content with a second-hand yarn, Hutchins 
walked around by the caterer’s place on his way to Miss 
Vallon’s home. 

He found Joe, the doorman, and asked him concerning 
the matter. 

Joe told the tale just as the other man had repeated 
it. 

“Did Mr. Locke seem at all flustered or flurried, Joe?” 

“Not at all, sir. Might have been just going of an er¬ 
rand—as I thought he was. Maybe that’s what he did do, 
and met with some accident or foul play himself.” 

“Maybe. You noticed nothing more of special interest 
—in the light of later affairs ?” 

“No, sir—that is, except this.* Right after Mr. Locke 
went away—well—maybe five minutes after, a lady came 
running downstairs. She had on one of those fancy 
dresses, and a dark cloak over it. 

“ ‘Let me out, please,’ she says—pretty like. ‘I’m late 
to keep an appointment.’ ” 

“What did she look like?” 

“Lord, sir, I couldn’t tell you. Those dressy ladies look 
all alike to me. Well, I let her out—I thought as she didn’t 
have an escort, she’d have a car. But, no, she walked— 
not fast, but brisk like, and went over east. I watched 
her till I couldn’t see her any more. Probably her ap¬ 
pointment was near by.” 

“Probably. Then she didn’t go the way Mr. Locke 
went?” 


73 



74 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Oh, no, sir, just the opposite way. He went toward 
the Avenue.” 

“I see. Well, very likely the lady is in no way concerned 
in last night’s work.” 

“That’s what I think, sir. Just a casual guest—going 
on to another party. That’s the way they do.” 

“Who engaged you people, Joe? Mr. Locke?” 

“No, sir. Mr. Post. He always does. Mr. Locke 
don’t have parties very often, leastways, not big ones—* 
and when he does, Mr. Post and Miss Vallon, they do all 
the ordering. Mr. Locke, he likes it better that way. 
He’s no head for such details.” 

“Do you know him?” 

“Not so well, sir, but I’ve seen him. A pleasant-speak¬ 
ing man to-day, and to-morrow—well, sort of absent- 
minded.” 

“He wasn’t absent-minded when he left the house last 
night ?” 

“Not a bit. Bright as could be. Just, back in a minute, 
and a pleasant smile, and he was off.” f 

“Do you suppose, Joe, that he could have—er—you 
know, committed a crime, and then gone off gay—like 
that ?” 

“Well, he wasn’t to say gay, sir. But—oh, well there’s 
no tellin’ with these artist folks. They’re not like real 
people. I know. I’ve opened doors to both sorts—to all 
sorts—and the people down here—they’re sort of touch 
and go, here to-day and gone to-morrow. I can’t seem to 
think that Mr. Locke would do such a thing—and I don’t 
think he did—but if he did—why, yes, I think he’d be 
quite up to skipping off like as if nothing was the matter. 
And isn’t the fact that he hasn’t come back, pretty good 
proof of his guilt?” 

“So you suspect him, do you?” 





PEARL JANE 


75 


“It isn’t for me to suspect, sir. But if he turns out 
to be the one, I shan’t be overly surprised.” 

“You’ve no real reason to think him a criminal?” 

“Oh, Lord, no, sir, not that. But when a man goes off 
and doesn’t come back, and in a few minutes a lady’s found 
dead, and nobody else on the premises so much as knows 
who she is—what else is there to think?” 

“What, indeed?” said Hutchins. “Now, just one more 
question, my good man. That lady that went away soon 
after Mr. Locke, did more follow her?” 

“Not till after the alarm was given. Not till folks 
wanted to get away from a house that had trouble coming 
to it.” 

“But you said the alarm was given almost immediately 
after Mr. Locke went.” 

“Yes—that’s so. Well, I may as well own up I can’t 
remember exactly. The lady I spoke of w^ent alone; then 
when the others went, they went more by twos and threes. 
And they w r ent talking excited like in whispers, and seemin’ 
awful shocked, which wasn’t surprisin’. But the first lady, 
now r , she couldn’t have known about it, for she was smiling 
and sweet.” 

“Did she have on a mask?” 

“No, she’d taken that off.” 

“And you can’t remember her dress at all?” 

“Well—it was white. What I could see of it. But all 
the ladies wore long, full cloaks or capes that covered up 
their rig. Specially those who walked.” 

“A good many did w r alk?” 

“Oh, yes. You see the Square people are neighborly, 
and most of ’em live only a few blocks off.” 

Concluding he could learn no more from this man, 




76 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Hutchins went to the task he dreaded, that of interviewing 
Miss Cutler. 

He well knew Miss Vallon intended to shield the girl all 
she could from the least or slightest inconvenience. 

And sure enough, when he arrived, Miss Vallon met him 
in the living room, which was the studio of her tiny apart¬ 
ment, with the word that Miss Cutler was not yet awake. 

“And she is so worn out, I want her to sleep,” Kate 
purred on, pleasantly, “won’t I do? I can tell you all 
she could.” 

Hutchins came to the conclusion that directness was 
best with this type of woman—so he said: 

“Miss Vallon, you will do up to a certain pitch—and 
maybe past it. But if I find it necessary to question Miss 
Cutler personally let me assure you it will be far better 
for her to consent to see me than to continue to refuse.” 

Kate Vallon paled a little, but she only said: 

“Very well, question me.” 

“I come to you, because I understand you and Miss 
Cutler and Mr. Post are Mr. Locke’s nearest friends, in 
this district, at least. I am told by the caterer’s people 
that you ordered the supper, and such things as that 
betoken intimacy. Now, Miss Vallon, do you know where 
Mr. Locke is?” 

“I have not the faintest idea.” 

Hutchins said nothing to that, but his thought was, 
“And you wouldn’t tell me if you had!” 

“Do you think Miss Cutler or Mr. Post knows?” 

“I am sure Miss Cutler does not, and I am sure Mr. 
Post did not when I last saw him, which was when he 
brought us home last night.” 

“Does Mr. Post propose to try to find out?” 

“That I don’t know. You would better ask him.” 

“I intend to. Now, Miss Vallon, first of all, why are you 



PEARL JANE 


77 


in this distinctly antagonistic frame of mind? Don’t you 
know that you act as if you had something to conceal— 
or if there were something to be concealed, regarding Mr. 
Locke? Why is that?” 

“You’re utterly absurd. As a matter of fact, I know 
very little about Mr. Locke. We are all good friends, 
but ours is not an intimate sort of a crowd. I know no 
more about his private or personal affairs than he knows 
about mine. I have no idea whether his disappearance is 
a purely casual one, or whether it is in any way con¬ 
nected with the distressing affair of last night. Indeed, 
Mr. Hutchins, I have no information that would be of the 
slightest use to you.” 

Hutchins bowed slightly. 

“Then I must ask for an interview with Miss Cutler. 
I am sorry to awaken her, but the law’s demands are 
inexorable. And she can go to sleep again. The lassitude 
of the day after a party is not a real malady. If you 
refuse further, you will make me think there is some other 
reason-” 

“Very well,” and Kate Yallon went to fetch Pearl 
Jane. 

The suspiciously quick return of the pair made Hutchins 
smile inwardly at the story of the sleeping girl, but he made 
no allusion to that. 

“I don’t want to worry or annoy you, Miss Cutler,” 
Hutchins said with almost kindness, for he saw at once 
she had doubtless passed a sleepless night. “But if you 
will tell me your own story—tell me all that is on your 
mind—it will be so much easier for both of us, than if 
I have to drag it out piecemeal.” 

“I haven’t any story—I haven’t anything to tell,” and 
the girl gave him a piteous look. 

“Let me help you,” and Hutchins was gentleness itself. 




78 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“When you hid in the closet what were you afraid of?’* 

“N-nothing in especial—but all the horrid things—the 
policeman, the dead woman-” 

“Had you seen the dead woman?” Hutchins shot this 
out, suddenly, and Pearl Jane gave a little scream. 

“No, oh, no, I hadn’t seen her.” 

“Yes, you had seen her. You had leaned down and 
looked at her—and, in doing so you touched her—and you 
made a stain of blood on the sleeve of your Dutch cos¬ 
tume.” 

To his surprise she suddenly changed her whole atti¬ 
tude. She sat up straight and seemed possessed of a new 
spirit of bravado. 

“I didn’t do any such thing!” she said, and Kate chimed 
in with, “Of course she didn’t.” 

“May I see the frock?” Hutchins asked, calmly. 

“Certainly,” said Kate, and she left the room. 

Hutchins took quick advantage. 

“Miss Cutler,” he said, softly, “trust in me. Truly, 
it is the best and wisest course. I will help you all I can 
—and I’m sure you have nothing of any moment to con¬ 
fess.” 

“Oh, I have! I have!” she moaned, and then Kate 
returned, and defiantly handed the pretty little costume 
to the detective. 

Remembering just where he had seen the stain on the 
sleeve, he turned to it, but there was none there. 

“You see!” cried Kate in triumph. 

“Yes, I see,” he returned, “and so can you, the place 
where it has been washed out. You can see clearly the 
mark made by the water or whatever was used to cleanse 
it.” 

“Nonsense,” said Kate, airily, “that’s where Miss Cutler 
chanced to stain her dress while eating a little supper 




PEARL JANE 


79 


after we came home. I persuaded her to try to nibble 
a bit of toast and drink some chocolate, and the chocolate 
spattered as I poured it from the pot.” 

Hutchins looked at her in undisguised admiration. 

“On the spur of the moment?” he asked, frankly, “or 
had you thought it up before?” 

“The simple truth,” persisted Kate, but he saw r her eye¬ 
lids quiver, and he knew it was far from the simple truth. 

what to do. He suddenly re¬ 
membered that the monk’s robe had been found in that 
same closet, and that the girl might have smeared her 
sleeve from that. For he felt sure the dark stain on 
Locke’s robe was blood. Did Pearl Jane know that? 

But if Detective Hutchins’ thoughts were chaotic, and 
his conclusions contradictory, they were no more so than 
the conflicting theories that filled the troubled brain of 
Andrew Barham. 

From the moment he stepped in his wife’s car to go 
back to his own home until he reached it, he was anxious 
and alarmed as to what the effect of the terrible news 
would be on Madeleine’s mother. 

He had a strange feeling that she would think he was 
somehow to blame—that he had let this terrible thing 
come to them. Yet surely he had kept watch and guard 
over his wife as fully and carefully as she would let him. 

His heart was full of grief, and the very fact that he 

and Madeleine had not been so congenial or happy as some 

married pairs, served to accentuate rather than mitigate 

his sorrow. For he had really loved his wife—loved her 

%/ 

far more than she ever knew or appreciated. More than 
she cared, probably. Yet when such a thought came to him 
he put it away, it seemed a sort of disloyalty. 

But, he thought, as he neared home, the first thing to 


He didn’t know exactly 





80 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


do was tell Mrs. Selden. He was tempted to wait until 
morning, even strove to persuade himself that it would 
be better for her to have her night’s sleep in peace, but 
he soon realized this idea was born of his distaste for the 
ordeal he knew he must face. 

So he dismissed the chauffeur, let himself in the house 
and went upstairs. 

He went to Madeleine’s boudoir, and tapped softly, for 
he knew Claudine would be there awaiting her mistress. 

The maid opened the door, and stared when she saw who 
was there. 

“I will come in for a moment, Claudine,” he said; “I 
have something to tell you. But first, w T hat did your mis¬ 
tress wear this evening?” 

“Madame went to a Bal Masque came the reply. “She 
wore a beautiful costume of an Oriental Princess.” 

“Where was the ball to be?” 

“Madame did not say.” 

“Did she say what time she would return?” 

“Only to say that she would be late, but I must sit up 
for her. It is not yet late.” 

“No; but—Claudine, your mistress will never return— 
she—she is dead.” 

“Monsieur! Sir! What can you mean?” 

“What I say. Have a care, Claudine, do not break 
into noisy weeping. I have all I can bear. Listen. My 
wife is dead—more, we have reason to think she was 
killed-” 

66 Mon Dieu! Murder!” and the girl trembled pitifully. 

“Hush!” said Barham, knowing he must be stern, even 
cruel, if she was to be of use to him. “Now, listen— 
it is not for you to take the center of the stage. I have 
to tell Madame Selden—think what that will mean. Go 
at once, Claudine, awaken her, and ask her to receive me. 






PEARL JANE 


81 


Do not tell her what I have told you—merely say I must 
see her at once. If she makes real objection, say it is 
on a gravely serious matter and is imperative.” 

And then Andrew Barham paced Madeleine’s boudoir, 
until Claudine returned to tell him Mrs. Selden was ready 
to see him. 

He found her sitting up in a chair, robed in peignoir and 
cap. 

“What is it, Drew?” she asked. “Has anything hap¬ 
pened? I’m sure you wouldn’t rout me out of bed other¬ 
wise.” 

“Yes, Mother,” and Andrew Barham felt nearer her now 
than he ever had before. “Yes, something has happened—• 
and w’e must bear it together, you and I. Something has 
happened to Madeleine—our little Maddy.” 

“What is it ? Tell me!” 

She must have sensed it in part from his face, for her 
own countenance turned ashen, and she shook like a 
leaf. 

“She was hurt—” he began—“badly hurt—and-” 

“And she is dead!” the mother said; “you needn’t say it, 
I know. How was she hurt?” 

Relieved at her calmness, Barham began very gently 
to tell her the details, when, suddenly gleaning the whole 
truth, she gave a scream and flinging out her arms, 
slipped down in her chair, unconscious. 

Hastily summoning Claudine, Barham lifted her back 
to her bed, and by the use of violet salts she soon re¬ 
covered her wavering consciousness. 

And then she became violently vituperative. 

“My child!” she moaned, “my baby—my little Made¬ 
leine!” Then, with a wild shriek, “Don’t you sit there, 
sobbing. You never loved her! You never understood 
her! Leave me, Drew—I can’t bear to look at you 





82 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


now. No, come back here—tell me more—tell me all 
about my child—my baby. Where is she, where is she, I 
say! Where is she now ?” 

And he told her what he had done. 

“Sent her off alone—to a terrible place! I said you 
never loved her! I knew you hated her-” 

“Listen, mother—don’t misjudge me. It was necessary 
—the authorities wouldn’t let me bring her home-” 

Mrs. Selden sat straight up in bed. Still handsome, 
she looked like some avenging goddess. Her w'hite hair 
had become disordered, her dark eyes shone like coals 
of fire, and her sharp features seemed sharper still in her 
wild frenzy. 

“The authorities! What have they to say about my 
child ?” 

In vain Barham tried to make her understand. He felt 
it would be best to get the whole scene over at once—and 
perhaps firmness was the wisest course. 

Claudine stood by, now adjusting a pillow, now offering 
the salts bottle, and now breaking down herself. 

“Try to understand, Mother,” Barham said, gently, but 
holding her by both hands and gazing into her eyes. 
“Madeleine has been killed—murdered. We have to do 
many things in that case, that we would not in case of 
an ordinary death. We have-” 

“Where was she?” she said. “Where did this happen? 
At Emmy Gardner’s?” 

“No; Mother, have you any idea where Madeleine 
started out for to-night?” 

“No; but she said she was going somewhere else before 
she went to Emmy Gardner’s.” 

“Yes, she did. She went to a house in Washington 
Square.” 

“Washington Square! Who in the world lives there?” 









PEARL JANE 


83 


“A Mr. Locke. Did she ever speak to you of him?” 

In spite of himself the man’s voice trembled. 

“No, never. Rosamond Sayre was here this evening— 
just after dinner.” Mrs. Selden said. 

“Madame Sayre said she would meet Madame at Ma¬ 
dame Gardner’s at eleven,” Claudine volunteered. 

“And what time did she leave home?” Barham asked. 

“About nine-thirty,” the maid answered. 

The reports all tallied as to time. There could be no 
doubt that Madeleine had gone to Locke’s from her own 
home and of her own accord. But why?— why? 

“Who is Mr. Locke?” Mrs. Selden said, quietly enough 
now. 

“He’s an artist. I wish, Mother, you’d try to sleep now 
—may Claudine perhaps give you a little chloral? You 
know you must be brave to-morrow—we have hard times 
before us—you and I.” 

The man felt so drawn to her through their common 
tragedy that he showed an affection he had rarely if ever 
shown before. 

But it had small effect on the half-crazed woman. 

“You and I!” she cried, with a burst of hysterical 
laughter. “You pretend to weep for Madeleine—my 
beautiful Madeleine! You! You ruined her whole life!” 

“How?” cried the man, stung by this injustice. 

“Because you wouldn’t give her money! You, rolling 
in wealth, denied that precious baby a few paltry hun¬ 
dreds-” 

“I never did, Mother. Madeleine never asked me for a 
dollar and was refused.” 

“She didn’t dare ask! She was afraid of you! You 
cowed her spirit—her beautiful spirit-” 

“What did Maddy want money for—more than I al- 






84 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


lowed her?” he asked, a strange wonder clutching at his 
heart. 

“For her Bridge games—her only pleasure. She had 
bad luck, poor child—she lost—oh, she lost thousands—” 

“Mother! What are you saying? Madeleine lost thou¬ 
sands at Bridge!” 

“Yes—time and again. I gave her all I had-” 

“There, there, dear, don’t let’s talk about this now. 
Let us both try to get some rest.” 

“No! I don’t want to rest! I want to talk! Tell me 
more—tell me all—everything—just as if I had been 
there. What was this place? Was it a right place?” 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure they were all charming people-” 

The man was nearly beside himself, and said what he 
thought most likely to soothe her. 

“Was it a musicale?” 

“No-” 

But his very voice failed him, and Claudine took up the 
burden. “It was a Bal Masque , Madame Selden. And 
Madame, she looked so ravishing in a costume of silks and 
sequins and jewels-” 

Mrs. Selden again sat bolt upright and pointed her fin¬ 
ger at Barham. 

“And you sent her—my child—to the—oh, to the ter¬ 
rible funeral place, in that gewgaw costume!” 

It was the first time Barham had realized this. It was 
terrible! Madeleine in her casket, in that gaudy robe! 
But he had been so engrossed in other and to him graver 
matters, he hadn’t even thought of that. 

“How horrible!” Mrs. Selden broke out again. “How 
ghastly! You care nothing for my sensibilities. Go—go 
at once, and take proper clothing.” 

“I will, mother,” the distressed man said, humbly. 
“What shall it be? A little w T hite gown?” 









PEARL JANE 


85 


“Yes—” and then Mrs. Selden broke down and sobbed. 
Yet in a moment another outbreak seemed imminent, 
and Barham feeling he could stand no more, and thinking 
he had done his duty, rose and left the room. 

“Do all you can for her, Claudine,” he said, “and if 
she gets violent, call up the doctor. I can do no more. 
But I will get a gown and send down for Mrs. Barham. 
No, don’t come, I’ll find it. Stay with Madame Selden.” 

And at last Andrew Barham closed the door upon the 
haven of his own room, alone. 



CHAPTER VII 


A FRIEND INDEED 

Andrew Barham sat at his breakfast table. 

After several hours of thinking, wondering, planning 
and sorrowing, he had been blessed with a short respite 
of fitful slumber, and now, though still in a state of mental 
chaos, he was outwardly composed. 

He was relieved that Mother Selden had not joined 
him in the breakfast room, though she had sent him some 
messages. It was her custom to breakfast in bed, but 
he feared she would change her plan for to-day, and when 
she did not, he was glad. One of his problems was what 
to do about her continued presence under his roof. 

He could not summarily dismiss Madeleine’s mother, as 
one would a servant, yet he couldn’t face years of solitude 
a deux with the unamiable lady. However, that was a fu¬ 
ture consideration—there were many more pressing. 

“Hello, Drew—here I am—I just had to come! May I?’* 

Nick Nelson came into the room, pushing past the 
waitress, and grasping Barham’s hand. 

Words of sympathy were unnecessary between these 
two friends, and Barham accepted the unspoken message 
he read in Nelson’s eyes. 

“All in the papers?” Barham asked. “I haven’t seen 
them.” 

“Yes; but I suppose garbled versions. Now, Drew, 
I’m here to help. Command me in any way you like. My 
time is all yours—and I needn’t tell you everything else 
I own is.” 


86 


A FRIEND INDEED 


87 


Nelson was a big, hearty, cheery sort, usually smiling, 
and the mere sight of his grave, solemn face, gave Barham 
a curious feeling as of looking at a stranger. 

“I don’t know, yet, what you can do, Nick, but I know 
there’s a lot to be done. Have a cup of coffee, and let’s 
talk things over.” 

Nelson, who w’as sharp-eyed, was pleased at this atti¬ 
tude. He had feared a more sensitive reserve, a hesitancy 
on Barham’s part to be receptive or responsive. 

“First,” said Nelson, “who is this Locke?” 

“He seems to be an artist, with a decent studio and a 
seemingly proper coterie of friends. That’s all I can 
tell you of him. The first thing, in my mind, is to find 
out how Madeleine came to know him—why she ever went 
there.” 

“Madeleine w T ent her own gait—” Nelson began. 

“I know it. But, Nick, I always knew where she was. 
I didn’t cotton to her card-playing cronies—but they were 
all right. You know, the Gardners, the Sayres, the Thorn- 
leys—all that bunch are, at least, of our own people—not 
Bohemians.” 

“Is this Washington Square place a Bohemian joint?” 

“No, it isn’t; as I saw it. I mean it isn’t the Greenwich 
Village crowd. Though I met only one or two, beside the 
police people. But I gathered from the general atmosphere 
that it was the place of a working artist rather than a 
poseur. Still, I may be mistaken—and anyway, it doesn’t 
matter. Any studio on Washington Square seems to me 
a strange place to find my wife.” 

“Did it occur to you, Drew, that she may have been— 
may have died somewhere else, and been taken there?” 

“Don’t mince words, Nelson. Madeleine was murdered 
—the fact is terrible enough—why balk at the word. No, 
your suggestion isn’t tenable. She was seen there for 




88 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


some time before she was killed. I’ve tried and tried to 
think it was an accident—but it wasn’t. The doctors agree 
on that and, too, I can see that it couldn’t have been.” 

Barham sat back in his chair and pushed away from 
the table. 

His hair gleamed golden in the morning sunlight, his 
heavy eyebrows of the same color, seemed to contract into 
a straight line as he gazed intently at Nelson. 

“Nick, they say that Locke man killed her. I’m not so 
sure that he did. But I want to find the murderer—that’s 
one thing I’m sure of. Will you help me do that?” 

“Rather! But I’m no good as a sleuth. I’m willing 
enough—and I’m shrewd, in a way—but I’ve none of that 
detective instinct in my make-up. Now, I’ve heard of a 
man-” 

“No, don’t drag in a private detective. They’re no 
good—and too, the police detective on this case seems to 
be a clever sort. Give him his chance. But I want to find 
out some things—about—Madeleine. That’s an admis¬ 
sion, isn’t it, for a man to make, concerning his own wife! 
But I did a lot of thinking last night—and, well, maybe, 
I didn’t treat the girl right—after all.” 

“Hush that, Drew! Since you’ve raised the question, 
let me say once for all, you’ve nothing to reproach yourself 
for. Maddy w r as beautiful, she was accomplished, and 
all that—but she—she wasn’t right! You did everything, 
and more, that mortal man could do—but the woman was 
—she was wrong.” 

“Explain yourself, please,” and Andrew Barham’s blue- 
gray eyes took on that deeper blue that came to them in 
moments of extreme anger or other strong passion. 

“Drop that attitude, Drew,” the other said, quietly. 
“I’ll tell you if you want me to—or, I’ll not tell you. But 






A FRIEND INDEED 


89 


there are things about Madeleine that you have never 
known.” 

Barham’s attitude changed to one of wonder. 

“Tell me, Nick,” he said, briefly. 

“Not here—come to some quieter place.” 

But before the two men could have further talk, Detec¬ 
tive Hutchins was announced. 

“Sorry to intrude,” he said, politely, “but there are some 
questions I have to settle at once, Mr. Barham.” 

“Very well, come into the library,” and Andrew Barham 
introduced Nelson, and the three sat down. 

“To be through with this interview as quickly as pos¬ 
sible, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins said, “I’ll tell you where 
we stand. We, the police, have practically only two facts 
to work on—Mrs. Barham’s death, and the disappearance 
of Mr. Locke. Anything else we know is part and parcel 
of one of these two propositions. Now, it is self-evident 
that you cannot tell us anything about the whereabouts 
of Mr Locke. But I am obliged to ask you some ques¬ 
tions regarding your wufe’s life. I am sorry-” 

“Mr. Hutchins,” Andrew Barham said, quietly, “I will 
ask you to eliminate the personal equation entirely. I 
know it is from consideration of my feelings that you 
hesitate or apologize at introducing these subjects, but I 
assure you it will make it easier for me if you will say 
what is necessary, in a business-like way. I am quite 
ready to tell you what I can, but let us be brief and to the 
point.” 

Hutchins* respect and admiration for this man rose 
another point, and he said, simply, “I understand, Mr. 
Barham. Now, shall I speak before Mr. Nelson?” 

“Certainly. I have no secrets regarding these things 
from him.” 





90 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Then can you tell me who invited Mrs. Barham to Mr. 
Locke’s studio party?” 

“That I cannot. I should be glad to learn, myself. I 
had no idea she knew him, or knew any people who would 
be likely to attend the affair.” 

“Yet she was there.” 

“Not only that, Mr. Hutchins, but she went there volun¬ 
tarily and from her own home. Her own maid dressed her 
in the Oriental costume, and her own chauffeur drove her 
there at her directions. All of this is as much a mystery 
to me as to you. Clear it up if you can.” 

Though Barham’s voice was steady and his manner calm, 
Nelson noted the occasional clenching of his hands or bit¬ 
ing of his lip, as if he held himself under control with 
difficulty. 

“You’ve asked Mrs. Selden about it?” asked Nelson. 

“That reminds me,” Hutchins put in, “I must ask to 
see Mrs. Selden. Shall I interview her later, or w r ill you 
send for her now?” 

Barham considered. 

“As you like,” he said, “but Mrs. Selden is exceedingly 
nervous—even hysterical. Can you not excuse her?” 

“No; it is imperative. And, it will save time,” he 
glanced at the library clock,“ if she will come here now.” 

“Get her, will you, Nick?” Barham said, and Nelson left 
the room. 

“Be careful with her,” Barham warned Hutchins. “She 
may be cool and collected, and yet, ready to fly into a 
passion at some simple remark.” 

“I’ll manage her,” said the detective carelessly and con¬ 
fidently; yet when, a moment later, Marcia Selden ap¬ 
peared, he lost a little of his cocksure confidence in himself. 

She came into the room, tall, stately, gowned in the 
deepest black, and her face was like a thundercloud. She 




A FRIEND INDEED 


91 


walked slowly across the room, unheeding the men as they 
rose, and seated herself in an armchair. 

Hutchins said afterward, all he could think of was a 
Scripture verse that was something like, “Terrible as an 
army with banners!” 

Nelson followed her in, and Claudine remained, uncer¬ 
tainly, on the threshold. 

“Wait outside, Claudine,” Mrs. Selden said, “and close 
the door.” 

“Now, sir,” she turned to Hutchins, unheeding Barham’s 
word of introduction, “who killed my daughter?” 

But her speech didn’t frighten the detective as had 
the majesty of her appearance. Indeed, to him, that ques¬ 
tion placed her at once, as a mere foolish woman, and as 
such he answered her. 

“We don’t know yet, Mrs. Selden, we are endeavoring 
to find out.” 

“When will you know?” 

“That I can’t say, but I am hoping that you can give 
us some help in our efforts to find the criminal.” 

“You know the criminal! You know it was that artist 
person.” 

“Have you any reason to think that, aside from the 
fact that her death occurred there?” 

“Yes, the fact of his disappearance. Why else would 
he run away?” 

“That is only negative evidence. However, it will be 
sifted. Now, Mrs. Selden, can you not tell me of any 
friend of your daughter’s who might invite her to that 
party? Mr. Barham is quite sure that her intimates are 
not to be found in that section of the city.” 

“Indeed they are not! My daughter never went down 
there of her own accord-” 

“But she ordered her driver herself-” 





92 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“I know all that—but she was forced into it. Some one 
made her do it!” 

“Oh, come now, mother,” Barham said, looking at her 
curiously, “how could that be? Who could so coerce 
Madeleine?” 

“Call in that maid,” said Hutchins, who was getting a 
little excited. 

“Claudine,” he said to her, quickty, “when you dressed 
Mrs. Barham for the masquerade, did she seem glad to 
be going or did she seem to be going unwillingly?” 

Claudine hesitated and looked from one to another. 

“Tell the truth,” said Barham, quietly, but Nelson saw 
him turn a shade paler as if he feared a revelation. 

“Then,” the maid said, hesitatingly, “I can scarcely 
express it—yet it was this way; as if Madame wanted to 
go—yet feared it.” 

“Feared it!” exclaimed Barham. 

“Perhaps not that—” Claudine was really trying to 
give just the meaning she had in mind, “it was more as if 
Madame were about to make an experiment.” 

“To go to such a place for the first time?” suggested 
Nelson. 

“Yes, that is it. And she wanted to look her very best 
—and, still—she hesitated. Once or—yes, twice—she 
pushed me away, and said— { I won’t go! Get me another 
gown.’ Then in an instant she said, ‘I will go ! I must go !’ 
and she went through with it. When all arrayed, she 
looked so beautiful she was much pleased, and seemed 
eager then to go.” 

“Inexplicable,” said Nelson, “but there was surely some 
influence at work, whether good or bad.” 

“Of course there was!” Mrs. Selden cried hysterically. 
“And I have an idea that I know who is back of all this.” 



A FRIEND INDEED 


93 


“You do, Mrs. Selden?” Hutchins was really startled. 
“Then you must tell at once.” 

“I will,” and her voice grew louder. “There he sits! 
Andrew Barham! He never understood my poor daughter.” 

“Hush, hush,” Nelson began, but Barham said, “Let 
her alone, Nick, it’s bound to come.” 

“Yes,” the irate woman continued, “I don’t know how 
he worked it, but he had her decoyed down there and lured 
away to her death—my Madeleine, my baby!” 

“You must interpret this outbreak as you see fit, Mr. 
Hutchins,” Barham said, with a weary dignity. “I assure 
you it is merely the vagary of a brain almost disordered 
by the shock and grief of the tragedy. Knowing Mrs. 
Selden as I do, it doesn’t entirely surprise me, but I will 
state that it is utterly untrue. I have no idea why my 
wife went to Mr. Locke’s last night. That is my state¬ 
ment.” 

Few could look at the distressed but fearless face, few 
could note the straightforward, even defiant manner and 
not be convinced the man spoke the truth. 

But Hutchins was a wary sort, and he was quick to 
follow up any new line. 

He nodded sidewise to Barham, but addressed himself 
to Mrs. Selden, thinking, and rightly, that any moment 
might bring an outburst of hysterics and he could learn 
no more. 

“Why would Mr. Barham do this, Mrs. Selden?” 
IHutchins asked, making his voice as matter-of-fact as 
he could. 

“Maddy was a gambler,” Mrs. Selden said, looking at 
him out of eyes that now stared piercingly, and again 
glared wildly about the room, “a terrible gambler. Poor 
baby, it was the only happiness she had. Her husband 
neglected her-” 




94 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“I protest!” Nelson cried. “That is not true! The 
reverse is the truth-” 

“Be still, Nick,” Barham was very white and quiet, “let 
her tell what she will.” 

Something in his calm voice quelled Mrs. Selden and 
she suddenly became like a whimpering child. “Well, 
anyway,” she said, “they didn’t get on. He was good 
to her—yes, I must admit that—but—oh, well, she did 
waste a lot of money. Poor little Maddy, what gown 
did you pick out for her, Drew? That white China 
crepe?” 

“Yes, mother,” and Barham spoke as gently as if she 
had not arraigned him so cruelly. 

“And we must have flowers—lots of valley lilies—and 
■white lilac—Maddy loved white lilac-” 

“Yes, Mother, that wdll all be attended to.” 

“Attended to! How thoughtless you are of my wishes, 
Andrew. I want to attend to it myself. No one but me 
shall pick out Maddy’s flowers-” 

“I know,” Barham said, patiently, “but don’t you 
remember, Mother, the florist is coming here to consult 
you-” 

“When? When, Drew?” 

“This afternoon, at three o’clock. You asked me to 
order him to do so, you sent me the message by Claudine 
this morning.” 

“So I did—when I first woke up. I dreamed about it. 
Well, Drew, dear, you’re a good boy. Maybe you didn’t 
kill Maddy—I mean, maybe-” 

Gravely listening, and closely watching Mrs. Selden, 
Hutchins slowly drew his pencil through some lines he 
had written. 

“I think her conversation cannot be reported, Mr. Bar¬ 
ham,” he said; “she is not responsible.” 








A FRIEND INDEED 


95 


He had not meant this to be heard by the now silent 
woman. 

But it was, and she turned on him in fury. 

“Not responsible, young man! I! Marcia Selden! How 
dare you say such a thing! I’ll have you arrested—get 
out of this house this instant! I am entirely respon¬ 
sible ! I have more brains in a minute than you’ll have 
in a thousand years! I know what I’m talking about. 
Indeed I do!” 

“Oh, Mother,” Barham’s patience began to give way, 
“do stop this tirade. Please be more quiet.” 

Again her voice rose to a shriek. 

“Brute! Unnatural man! My child is killed, and he 
says, ‘Be quiet!’ I won’t be quiet! I will say what I 
think!” 

“Then say it without me,” and Barham rose and left 
the room. 

“Follow him, Mr. Nelson,” Hutchins said, quickly, “it 
may not be a bad plan.” 

Nelson went, and the detective tried to ingratiate him¬ 
self with Marcia Selden. 

Claudine sat beside her, trying to soothe her, but with 
small success. 

“Now, dear lady,” he said, “you tell me anything you 
can to help me, and then you go away and rest before the 
florist comes to see you. You’ve a lot to attend to, 
with him, you know. Were you in your daughter’s confi¬ 
dence? Did she ever tell you about her acquaintance 
with Mr. Locke?” 

For a long moment Marcia Selden looked at him. 

Hutchins knew that his fate was in the balance. She 
might respond to his advances and give him her confidence 
and she might fly into a rage at him. 

“No,” she said, at last, “she never told me of any such 



96 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


person. She never mentioned such a place as a studio on 
Washington Square. I don’t believe she had ever been 
there before. And perhaps I was too hard on Mr. Bar¬ 
ham. He was never unkind to his wife. They were prob¬ 
ably as fond of each other as most married people.” 

Hutchins was amazed. Surely, this was the talk of a 
rational woman. 

“Does Mr. Barham play cards?” he asked, trying to 
make the question sound casual, though it was of impor¬ 
tance to him. 

“Not much. He plays Bridge, but an indifferent game. 
My daughter was a brilliant player—a renowned player. 
But she had bad luck—always. And she lost.” 

“Large sums?” 

“Oh, yes, enormous.” 

“And Mr. Barham objected?” 

“He didn’t know it. At least he didn’t know how very 
large they were.” 

“How did she pay them?” 

“I gave her money frequently—then, of course, some¬ 
times she won—and sometimes, I think, she borrowed from 
her friends.” 

“And from me,” Claudine said, unable to resist the 
temptation to speak. “Many times did I lend Madame 
the money for the gamble.” 

“Did she repay you ?” asked Hutchins. 

“Sometimes, not always.” 

“Some is still due you, then?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Plush, Claudine, it will be paid, as you well know. How 
dare you say a word against that sainted child! My 
Madeleine! My baby!” 

Hutchins had already had enough experience to know 
that this was the precursor to another tantrum, and he 




A FRIEND INDEED 


97 

fled the room, leaving the now screaming woman to the 
ministrations of the despairing maid. 

“You see how matters stand, Mr. Hutchins,” Barham 
said, as the detective found him and Nelson in an adjoin¬ 
ing room. “Mrs. Selden is not demented, but she is irra¬ 
tional at times, mostly because* of this shock—but also 
owing to her naturally excitable disposition and inflam¬ 
mable temper. You may make such use of her statements 
as you see fit, but in justice to myself, I must ask that 
you verify them by some more competent testator before 
you accept them as true.” 

“I have no intention of reporting anything Mrs. Selden 
said,” the detective told him. “I am convinced for myself 
that she cannot control her speech when the frenzy comes 
upon her. Moreover, a few moments ago, after }mu left 
the room, she greatly modified her expressions of vitupera¬ 
tion. Now, I am due at the inquiry to be held in Mr. 
Locke’s place at eleven o’clock this morning. You need 
not come, Mr. Barham, but you should be represented.” 

“I will represent him,” Nelson said, promptly. “I am 
a lawyer, and I will do all that is necessary. Also, I will 
be responsible for Mr. Barham in any and every way.” 

“Thank you, Nick—I’m glad to have you help me out 
like that. Mr. Hutchins, what is this Mr. Locke like? 
Do you know him?” 

“No; nor can I seem to find any picture of him. But 
I’m told that he is of what is called the artist type—long 
hair, big glasses, low collar and flowing tie.” 

Nelson smiled at the graphic description. “I didn’t 
know that sort grew nowadays,” he said, “outside the 
cartoons.” 

“They do in Washington Square—lots of them.” 

“Do you gather that he is a—a gentleman?” Barham 
continued. 




98 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“I do gather that,” Hutchins said, “and partly because 
I spent last night—what was left of it—in his room, and 
made use of his bed and bath. One can judge a man by 
such things, and I gathered that he was of decent, even 
refined habits—yet, of course, that does not preclude his 
being a criminal.” 

Hutchins spoke thoughtfully; and added, “Also, he has 
a jolly good sort of servant.” 

“What sort?” said Barham. 

“A Chinese boy; devoted to his master, neat and effi¬ 
cient, and about as talkative as a steamed clam.” 

“Still, he ought to be made to tell you of Locke,” Nelson 
said. 

“Yes—but after all, it isn’t so important to be told 
about Locke as to find him.” 

“Telling of him may lead to finding him.” 

“It may, but I don’t think the Chinese can tell anything 
of importance. I’m quite sure he doesn’t know where 
Locke is. But we’ll find him yet. That I do feel sure of.” 



CHAPTER VIII 


THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 

When Hutchins reached the Locke apartment the in¬ 
quiry was already in progress. Doctor Babcock was 
conducting it, and though an able and shrewd questioner, 
he was glad of Hutchins’s presence. 

For Lieutenant Hutchins was looked upon as one of 
the most far-seeing and quick-witted of the Homicide 
Squad of the Detective Bureau, and Babcock wanted him 
to hear every word of the evidence. 

Not that there was much evidence. It was a baffling 
case. 

Thomas Locke seemed to have vanished off the face of 
the earth, and yet except for the fact of that vanishing 
there was no reason to connect him in any way with the 
murder of Madeleine Barham. 

No proof; indeed, no suggestion of acquaintance be¬ 
tween the two could be discovered. 

The medical examiner well knew that it was not an 
unknown case for a wife to have friends of whom her 
husband knew nothing, but that fact couldn’t prove any¬ 
thing in the present instance. 

All the guests of the night before had been allowed to 
go to their homes because of the utter absence of any 
sort of evidence to warrant their detention or even further 
questioning, except for three friends, who were said to be 
Locke’s intimates. 

These three, Miss Vallon, Miss Cutler and Mr. Post, had 
been summoned to the inquiry, and Rodman Jarvis, of 
course, was there. 

99 

) 

i > 

» i 


loo MORE LIVES THAN ONE 

Nick Nelson, present in the interests of Barham, looked 
about curiously. 

The pleasant, roomy studio, with its untheatrical fur¬ 
nishings, attracted him, and he marveled at the absence 
of the conventional claptrap. He sat next to Jarvis, and 
the two struck up a passing acquaintance. 

Chinese Charley was interviewed first. 

“He’ll tell nothing, whether he can or not,” Nelson said 
to his neighbor. 

“If he knows anything, they’ll get it out of him,” Jarvis 
argued. 

And they did. It wasn’t very much, but by dint of 
threats and hints of punishment they succeeded in getting 
what seemed like a straight story from the Chinaman. 

It was to the effect that Locke had, about half past ten, 
come down the front stairs, found Charley, and given him 
the monk’s robe, with orders to hang it in the closet. 
Locke had then taken his hat and light topcoat and had 
walked out of the front door, as the caterer’s doorman 
had told Hutchins. 

But after that, Charley knew no more concerning the 
doings of his master. He, himself, had run away home at 
sight of the policeman, but next morning, from a sense 
of duty, or from force of habit, had turned up at his 
usual hour of six o’clock. 

“Isn’t that very early?” asked Babcock. “I thought 
artists were a late crowd.” 

“I have much to do,” Charley returned, gravely. “I 
clean all—I sweep, dust—make all pleasant. Then the 
breakfast.” 

“I see. And was Mr. Locke always ready for his 
breakfast?” 

“If here. Not always here.” 

“Ah, away part of the time?” 



THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 


101 


“Yes. Away part of the time.” 

“Where did he go?” 

The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders, with a mere 
“No,” but no words could have expressed a more utter 
absence of information on that subject. 

A few further questions and he was set aside as a hope¬ 
less source of enlightenment. 

Rodman Jarvis was called next, and he also knew but 
little. His acquaintance with Locke dated perhaps from 
six months back. He knew him in a social and casual way, 
but not at all intimately or confidentially. He himself 
was a lawyer, but he had artistic leanings and in his 
leisure hours preferred to consort with painters or art 
students rather than learned members of his own pro¬ 
fession. 

He said there were perhaps a dozen or so who met 
occasionally for a social evening or afternoon, but the 
occasions were not very frequent, and they rarely saw 
each other in the intervals. 

His estimate of Locke was all to the good, though 
avowedly superficial. He said Locke was something of 
a dreamer, rather intellectual, a fair artist, and a good 
pal. He was more inclined to listen than to talk, Jarvis 
said, when the crowd held their pow-wows, but when he 
did speak, he usually said something worth listening to. 
Oh, not highbrow, or erudite, but original and interesting. 

All of which put the absent Locke in a pleasant light, 
and gave no impression of a sinister character. 

But Babcock sighed, as he realized that this, after all, 
meant very little. He asked Henry Post for further 
description of the missing man. 

“Locke is a good sort,” Post declared. “But I know 
little about him. He kept to himself—as we most of us do, 
down here. We are not inquisitive about our neighbors, 



102 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


so it is only as a fellow artist that I can tell you much 
about him. He is a chap who enjoys himself wherever he 
is. Who is ready to take his part and do his share always. 
But I’ve never known him to talk about himself or to draw 
attention to himself—except as it might follow a discus¬ 
sion of his work. He is an earnest and a painstaking 
painter, though as yet he has not made a name for himself 
in the Art world. Perhaps once a week, a few of us 
congregate here and jabber on art topics. A party, such 
as was held last night, is most unusual for Locke to give 
though he often has smaller gatherings. He goes away a 
great deal—I don’t know where, but I fancy off on sketch¬ 
ing tours—or perhaps to visit friends. I have often tele¬ 
phoned him here and received no answer. But that is the 
way with most of us down here. We are a lawless lot, 
so far as the laws of convention are concerned.” 

“Then you know nothing, Mr. Post, concerning Mr. 
Locke’s family, relatives or more intimate friends?” 

“Nothing at all.” 

“And you have no idea where he is at this moment?” 

“Not the slightest.” 

Both Jarvis and Nick Nelson watched Post carefully as 
he made this last statement, but neither could detect by 
so much as the quiver of an eyelash that the man was 
telling other than the exact truth. Indeed, his whole 
manner and attitude was frank and straightforward, and 
Nelson, who was a good reader of character, felt that 
Post knew no more of Locke than he had declared. 

Miss Vallon was Questioned next. 

Her story was much the same as Henry Post’s. 

She gave the impression that she and Miss Cutler, Mr. 
Post and Mr. Locke formed a sort of informal quartette. 
That they dined together perhaps once a fortnight or so, 
and afterward spent the evening in Locke’s studio, dis- 



THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 


103 


cussing the subjects in which they were all interested. 
Miss Vallon was already an illustrator of books or maga¬ 
zines. Miss Cutler was still studying—while the two men 
painted pictures without any definite idea of their ulti¬ 
mate bestowal. 

“Did you never hear Mr. Locke mention a relative or 
a near friend outside your circle?” Babcock asked. 

“No, not that I remember,” Miss Vallon replied, 
thoughtfully. “I may have heard him speak of his mother 
once or twice, but only in a reminiscent way; I don’t know 
whether she is living or not.” 

So Miss Vallon’s knowledge was of no more help than 
Post’s. 

The examiner turned hopefully to Pearl Jane Cutler. 

That young woman had recovered her normal poise, and 
faced the listening group calmly, even coolly. 

Hutchins watched her intently, for he had left her 
rather abruptly that morning earlier, finding his time was 
so short. 

“Can you tell us, Miss Cutler, any more concerning the 
family or friends of Mr. Locke, than the other witnesses 
have ?” 

“No,” she said, quietly, shaking her bobbed hair and 
raising her wistful eyes to the face of the questioner. 

Her intent regard disconcerted him a trifle, but he 
went on: 

“You know him, casually, as Miss Vallon does?” 

“Precisely in the same way,” she replied. “I have never 
seen Mr. Locke except in Miss Vallon’s company. We live 
in the same house.” 

“Then I will ask you concerning another phase of the 
matter. Will you tell me of your finding Mrs. Barham’s 
body on the smoking-room floor?” 

“Finding—What! I—I didn’t find- ” 




104 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Be careful, Miss Cutler—you will only make trouble 
for yourself by withholding the truth. You were seen— 
seen , bending down over the body of Mrs. Barham! Do 
you still deny it?” 

Partly to intimidate his witness, and partly to hide his 
own disinclination to pursue this subject, Babcock frowned, 
sternly and spoke with severity. 

But to his surprise, Pearl Jane threw up her head 
defiantly, and said: “Who saw me?” 

“I see no reason to refuse an answer to that question,” 
Babcock returned; “it was the Chinaman, Charley.” 

“Where was he?” said Pearl Jane, speaking almost con¬ 
versationally and looking sharply at the Chinese boy. 

Hutchins regarded the girl with surprise. What had 
so changed her attitude? Also, what revelations were 
about to be made? 

“Where were you, Charley?” and Babcock turned to the 
servant. 

“Light behind Missee Cutler,” he replied, stolidly star¬ 
ing straight ahead of him. 

“And where was Miss Cutler?” 

“In smokee loom—lookee allee time at dead lady.” 

It was characteristic of the boy to use the broken Eng¬ 
lish in time of embarrassment or emotion—and to use 
almost perfect English when calm and unperturbed. 

“Was Miss Cutler alone in that room?” 

“Gentleman at door. Lookee out on studio.” 

“I will tell,” said Pearl Jane, speaking clearly and 
steadily. “I was in the small hall back of the smoking 
room—where the back stairs come up.” 

“What were you doing there?” 

“Only fixing my cap which had become disarranged— 
and assuring myself that my costume was all in order. 
There is a mirror there and a light.” 



THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 


105 


“Go on.” 

“And I heard an exclamation or two in the den—that 
is, the smoking room. The door was almost closed. I 
pushed it open, and looked in. I saw some one on the 
floor. Impelled partly by curiosity, partly by a desire 
to be of assistance, I went to look—yes, I did bend over 
the body—I did, I dare say, get a smear of blood on my 
sleeve—” the girl shuddered, “but that’s the whole truth. 
I ran aw^ay at once, when I saw what it was.” 

“Why did you run away?” 

“Fright, horror, shock. I have never seen anything 
like that before and I scarcely knew what I was doing. 
I ran and hid in a closet—for no reason but that I was 
beside myself with fear and terror.” 

“Who w r as in the den?” 

“I saw no one but some man, who was looking out of 
the door into the studio.” 

“You touched nothing in the room? Moved nothing?” 

“N-no,” but Pearl Jane dropped her eyes, and 
Hutchins thought he noted a little gasp of alarm. Yet, 
who could connect this child with crime? Moreover, her 
story tallied with Charley’s. He said he saw her bend 
over the body. She admitted it. Henderson was in the 
room at that time—at the studio door calling for some 
one to find a doctor. 

Doubtless the girl did exactly as she recounted, doubt¬ 
less, too, the Chinaman’s story was true and he did see 
her as he described. 

There was, so far, not the slightest reason to suspect 
either of these two of any connection whatever with the 
crime itself. 

To the question, “Who did it?” there could be no con¬ 
vincing answer until Thomas Locke could be found and 
made to speak for himself. 




106 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


However, there was one point on which Hutchins felt 
he must have light. 

“Miss Cutler,” he said, easily, “are you and Mr. Locke 
especially good friends?” 

The girl’s cheeks took on a deeper color, but she said 
coldly, “Will you state what you mean by that term?” 

“Whew!” Hutchins thought to himself. “What has 
come over her? She’s been coached by somebody—and a 
mighty good job, at that.” 

Aloud, he said, “I will—since you ask it. I mean, is 
there any romantic attachment between you?” 

“No,” she replied, and her air was almost judicial; 
“no, not that. We are pals—good chums—fellow-workers 
—that is all.” 

Except for the sudden blush the question had called up, 
the girl seemed entirely unmoved. 

But Hutchins said to himself, “She’ll bear watching. 
She has turned from a hysterical baby to a self-composed 
young woman altogether too quickly! I believe she has 
had some word from Locke, somehow. Of course he will 
telephone to some one, as soon as he can manage it. Un¬ 
less he is really the criminal and has vamoosed for good 
and all.” 

“Well,” Nick Nelson said to his new friend, Jarvis, after 
hearing some more of this futile querying, “I don’t see as 
anybody can get anywhere. It isn’t the Examiner’s fault 
—nor yet Hutchins’—but they have nothing to work on. 
So far as we can gather, Locke is a proper, well-behaved 
citizen—but he mayn’t be at all. Now, he’s got to be 
found! Hang it all, man, nobody can drop out of exist¬ 
ence like that!” 

“Oh, it isn’t so difficult to hide,” Jarvis reflected. “I 
know Tommy, and I like him—in this casual way we all 
know him—but if he is a deep-dyed villain, and he may 




THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 


107 


be for all I know, he could easily keep himself hidden— 
even if he stayed right here in New York. Why, if he 
were to cut his hair short and raise a mustache, say, and 
lose his big glasses—his own mother wouldn’t know him. 
He is in no way a distinguished looking man—I mean, he 
isn’t distinctive looking.” 

“Even as you and I,” Nelson said smiling. 

Jarvis looked at him. 

“Either you or I w r ould find it harder to disguise our¬ 
selves than Locke,” he said; “we’re of stronger pecu¬ 
liarities.” 

“But why do you think Locke is under necessity of such 
procedure?” Nelson asked; “do you assume that he is 
responsible for the crime?” 

“I don’t quite say that,” Jarvis returned, slowly, “but I 
don’t see any other way to look.” 

“What about that girl?” Nelson asked; “the little, 
pretty one?” 

“Pearl Jane? Oh, she’s an innocent baby. I know her. 
She did get into the room—and she doubtless felt curiosity 
—or maybe wanted to be helpful, thinking some one had 
fainted. She’s all right—that child, but she is in love 
with Tommy.” 

“And he with her?” 

“That I don’t know. Maybe. But there’s nothing 
positive about it. I’m romantic—and I’ve thought lately I 
sensed a dawning romance there; but maybe not—maybe 
not.” 

And now the authorities were looking over the trinkets 
found at or near the scene of the crime. 

No one present claimed the glove or the fan or the mask 
or the vanity case—but the examiner was not surprised. 

They were all of small value, and to claim them might 



108 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


lay an innocent guest open to annoying questions that 
would mean nothing after all. 

The only thing that the detective had any hope of using 
was the glove. He felt vaguely that much could be learned 
from a woman’s glove, but though he had examined it care¬ 
fully inside and out, he could read nothing from it. To 
him it was a glove—a long, white kid glove—that was all. 

The beadsj the spangles, too, all merely meant the pres¬ 
ence of various guests who had worn them—they were in 
no way indicative. 

Hairpins—what could be read from them? 

Had any of the other women a chance to enter and 
lean over the body? 

Not that Babcock knew of. 

Then there was the foolish little tinsel dagger, there 
was a man’s glove, several cigarette stubs—oh, pshaw, 
none of these things could mean anything. The thing to 
do was to find Thomas Locke, and it must be done. 

Doctor Babcock voiced this as his ultimate conclusion. 
He declared that, in his opinion this consideration and 
discussion of hairpins and men’s gloves got them nowhere. 
Now, he would only ask questions that definitely concerned 
the personality, the character, and the possible where¬ 
abouts of Locke himself. And he asked that if anybody 
knew anything—anything at all, bearing on those things, 
he would immediately disclose such knowledge. 

There was a slight stir in the back part of the room, 
and a feminine voice said, “I may be able to tell something 
of interest.” 

The speaker was a quiet looking little woman, who gave 
her name as Eleanor Goodwin. She stated that she lived 
in the house next door, and that being often lonely, she 
frequently amused herself looking out of her windows at 
her neighbors. 




THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 


109 


“And you did this last evening?” Babcock asked hope¬ 
fully. 

“Yes—all during the arrival of the guests and off and 
on afterward.” 

“You saw anything of interest?” 

“It all interested me,” said Miss Goodwin, who seemed 
to be a pathetic creature, “because I have little excitement 
in my own life. I watched the guests arrive, because I 
caught many a glimpse of the beautiful or funny cos¬ 
tumes, and it gave me a glimpse of gay life.” 

“And later,” Babcock did not wish to hurry her unduly, 
but he did want to know if she had seen anything of any 
importance. 

“Well, later, I should say about ten-thirty, I saw Mr. 
Locke come out and come down the steps.” 

“You know him?” 

“By sight, oh, yes. I do not know him to speak to. 
Well, he went over west, toward Fifth Avenue, and he got 
on to a Fifth Avenue bus.” 

“You’re sure of this?” 

“Positive.” 

“Inside, or on top?” 

“He went up on top. I saw him ascend the stairway as 
the bus moved on.” 

“Thank you. Miss Goodwin, this may be helpful. Now 
did you see anything after that?” 

“Yes, very soon after I saw a lady come out and go 
away all alone. I thought it strange she had no escort 
and I watched her.” 

“Did she get on a bus?” 

“No; she went in the other direction—over east. I lost 
sight of her at once.” 

“Can you describe her at all ?” 

“Only that she was not very tall—a little plump—no. 



110 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


not that, but not so overly slender as some—and she had 
on a dark cape. However, it blew apart a little and I 
could almost discern her costume.” 

“What was it?” and more than one person present 
listened intently for the answer. 

“I shouldn’t want to swear to this, but I rather fancy 
she represented ‘Winter.’ Her dress was white and 
sparkling, and her slippers were white with spangles like 
hoarfrost. And on her head was a sort of glistening 
headdress that sparkled, too.” 

“Yes?” and the examiner turned quickly to Kate Vallon. 
“Do you know of any one w r ho came dressed as ‘Winter’?” 
he said, hoping to catch her off her guard. 

But Miss Vallon was seemingly quite ready to answer. 

“There were three or four ‘Winters’ here,” she said, 
thoughtfully. “Two of them I know, but I don’t think 
they went home early. I can give you their names.” 

Babcock was a bit regretful at her willingness, for he 
feared it meant merely a case of a “Winter” •who went 
early to keep another engagement. Also, this tallied with 
the doorman’s story of the lady in white who left, frankly 
saying she was “going on” to keep another appointment. 

He sighed, thanked Miss Goodwin again, assured her 
that he would call on her if he felt she could tell him 
anything more, and then returned to his statement that 
Mr. Locke must be found. 

He declared that there was no conclusion possible but 
that Mrs. Barham had come to her death by the blow of 
the bronze book-end, at the hands of some person or per¬ 
sons unknown. But that evidence pointed strongly to the 
supposition that Mr. Locke was implicated in the matter. 

He said further that there "was a stain on the monk’s 
robe worn by Mr. Locke, which had been practically proved 
to be a stain of blood. 




THE PUBLIC INQUIRY 


111 


He therefore urged every possible effort on the part of 
any one desirous of furthering the ends of justice to do 
anything in his power to find the missing man, and stated 
that the insistent efforts of the police would be made 
toward that end. 

He ordered a continuous guarding of the premises by 
the police, for he felt it quite likely that Mr. Locke would 
try to effect a clandestine entrance to his home on some 
errand. 

And he warned his hearers that it was possible that Mr. 
Locke had already disguised himself, and that when or if 
found, he might be a decidedly different looking man. 

He said further that he was empowered by Mr. Barham, 
through his friend and counsel, Mr. Nelson, then present, 
to offer a reward for any information that would lead to 
the discovery and capture of the murderer. 

He said the details of this reward were not yet ready 
for the public, but he mentioned it in hope of bringing out 
some otherwise unavailable data. And, he added that 
though all present were now dismissed, yet some would be 
questioned again, and he asked them to be in readiness at 
any time for such interviews. 



CHAPTER IX 

mrs. Gardner’s story 

The few days intervening between the death of Made¬ 
leine Barham and her funeral were as a nightmare of 
horrors to her husband. Yet, there was so much to be 
done that only he could do, and so many things to be 
attended to that only he could attend to, that, after all, 
the time passed quickly. 

Nelson brought him the report of what had been done 
at the police inquiry, and Barham listened gravely to his 
recital. 

“I’ve so many things on my mind, Nick,” he said, “that 
I can’t remember all you’re telling me. But that doesn’t 
matter, for I sent a stenographer down there, and I shall 
have the full account whenever I get ready to read it over. 
But you give me the salient points. I suppose they’ve no 
W’ord from or of Mr. Locke?” 

“No, they haven’t, and that of course is not surprising. 
Of course, Drew, the artist is either responsible for the 
deed—or he knows who is. That much goes without 
saying.” 

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Barham returned. But 
his attention was distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere. 

“Don’t think I’m not listening,” he said quickly, as he 
saw Nelson’s recognition of his wandering mind, “but, oh, 
Nick, if you knew all I have to contend with. I wouldn’t 
mention it to any one but you, but Mother Selden is driv¬ 
ing me crazy.” 

“She can do it! You’ll have to make some other ar¬ 
rangement for her, Drew.” 


112 


MRS. GARDNER’S STORY 


113 


“I can’t, Nick. She goes off in tantrums if I make the 
merest hint or suggestion of any change. Oh, well, that’s 
in the future. Just now, it’s the funeral arrangements. 
Poor Maddy, if I could only have a simple service and 
just a few of our nearest friends-” 

“Mrs. Selden objects to that?” 

“Oh, rather! She insists on enough pomp and cere¬ 
mony for a Queen of England, at least. And, I’m glad 
for her to have her way—it’s her own daughter, you 
know, but she changes all the details every few hours. 
Now she’s all for a vested choir, and when that is arranged, 
she decides on a solo by some prima donna instead.” 

“Can’t you put her and her arrangements in the hands 
of some one else?” 

“I tried that. I sent for her sister, Mrs. Beresford. 
And when she came, they quarreled the first thing, and 
her sister went off in a huff. Claudine’s a good girl, she 
helps out all she can. Oh, Lord, Nick, don’t think I’m 
complaining—but I have to think quickly to keep up with 
Mrs. Selden’s vagaries.” 

“Good old Drew,” and Nelson’s sympathy was ready. 
“Suppose I have a go at her. Maybe I can drive some 
sense into her head.” 

“All right, try it. You’ve done about everything else 
for me. Now, as to this investigation. I want it pushed, 
and all that, but I can’t do anything myself until after 
the funeral.” 

“Nor are you expected to. And, too, there’s nothing 
you or I can do. It’s up to the authorities. I think 
they feel that Locke is or will be in touch with that 
Miss Cutler.” 

“Who’s she?” Barham looked up with a show of interest. 

“She’s a neighbor and a friend of Locke’s. Rather an 
intimate friend, I judge. Also, and this is strange, she 




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was seen bending over Maddy’s body before it was found 
by Mr. Post—no, it was after that—but before the police 
saw it.” 

“Well, does that mean anything?” 

“I think not. The girl was frank enough about it. Yet, 
there are some who are ready to think she is impli¬ 
cated-” 

“In the crime? A girl?” 

“Well, the Chinese servant saw her stooping there—but 
you’ll read it all on your stenographer’s notes. That was 
a good idea, Drew, to get a complete record, like that.” 

“Yes, I have to have it—if I’m to help in the investiga¬ 
tion. I can’t be going down there—I haven’t the time, 
nor the inclination. But, Nick, I do want to find out 
who killed Maddy—and yet—do you suppose it will bring 
about unpleasant revelations-” 

“Yes,” and Nelson looked at him steadily, “yes, Drew, 
I think it will.” 

“Then shall we hush it all up?” 

“You can’t. It’s not in your hands. Now, take my 
advice, old man; after the funeral, put Mrs. Selden away 
some place—you can send her off on a visit—and then let 
me help you cook up some plan by which you can cover 
up Maddy’s—shortcomings. There’s a lot you ought to 
know, well, never mind it now—but when the time comes, 
we’ll work it out together.” 

“Very well,” and Barham looked stern. “I am ready 
to do anything to shield my wife’s name or reputation. I 
can’t take up the matter now, I’ve pressing engagements 
—but I will do just as you advise, Nick, except as to send¬ 
ing Mrs. Selden away. That I can’t do, unless she’s willing 
to go. If you can persuade her—for Heaven’s sake, do!” 

Nelson went off, and Barham fell into one of the brown 
studies which were frequent with him of late. 








MRS. GARDNER’S STORY 


115 


And not the least of his quandaries was the fact that 
people were acting queer. His own most intimate friends 
stood by him loyally. Men called or wrote or telephoned 
with sincere offers of help, sympathy and understanding. 

But Madeleine’s friends w T ere aloof. Only a few of the 
women had called on Mrs. Selden, only a few had sent 
notes or cards to him. 

He knew, he realized that there was something for him 
to learn about Maddy—something derogatory, perhaps 
disgraceful, but from a strange feeling or fear he shrank 
from knowing it—at least, until after her funeral. 

He wanted to take his last look at that beautiful face 
with only sorrow in his heart, not shame—if shame must 
come. 

Poor Madeleine. He thought of her only tenderly. He 
forgot all the unpleasant things she had said to him, he 
forgot all her sarcasms and insults, and there had been 
many of late. He felt that perhaps he had been more to 
blame than he realized. 

He had not been blameless, that he knew. But, then— 
and always at that point thoughts came crowding that he 
could not stand, and he would rise and go about some 
other business, in an effort to distract his mind. 

Mrs. Gardner had written him a short, conventional 
note of condolence. She had said that she couldn’t bear 
to talk about it, and hoped he would understand. He did. 

Rosamond Sayre telephoned to say that she was too 
upset and overcome even to write. Perhaps after a long 
time she could see him, but not at present. 

“Why do they think I want to see them?” Barham 
wondered. Just because they had been his wife’s friends 
was no reason to his mind that they should meet and dis¬ 
cuss the dreadful affair. 

One woman gave him an inkling of the situation. 



116 


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She was a very undesirable type, to his mind, but he 
remembered that Maddy had resented his criticism of her. 
Her name was Gibbs, and from her he received a short, 
even curt note, that she extended her sympathy, and 
trusted that when the time came for him to settle up 
his wife’s estate, he would remember that she was among 
the creditors. 

“I suppose poor Maddy owed her a few dollars at 
Bridge,” he thought. “I wish I had made more inquiries 
as to the poor child’s finances. I thought I gave her 
enough.” 4 

And then, with one of those strange perversities of 
which human nature is capable, he felt a sudden wave of 
relief that she was gone. 

He was shocked, horrified, ashamed of—this—but there 
were times when it came over him that he had achieved 
freedom—by a fearful means, truly—but freedom. 

He hadn’t time to analyze this thought, but he had 
time to be ashamed of it, and it was with real dismay that 
he took himself to task for such an impulse, and hastily 
set about doing all he could to make amends by offering 
honor to her memory. 

But if Mrs. Gardner was unwilling to see or talk to 
Andrew Barham regarding his dead wife, she was not al¬ 
lowed to hesitate when the detective from the Police 
Bureau called upon her. 

She promptly refused to see him, which refusal was as 
promptly set aside and she was advised to make an 
appearance. 

“What is it you want with me?” she asked in a super¬ 
cilious way as she swept into the drawing room and 
confronted Hutchins with a reproving stare. 

“I must ask you some questions, madam, and it is 



MRS. GARDNER’S STORY 


117 


necessary that you answer to the best of your knowledge 
and belief.” 

As is often the case with those unfamiliar with police 
procedure, any phrase of the law carries a certain amount 
of awe-inspiring command and impressed also by Hutchins* 
air of authority, Mrs. Gardner came do’vn a little from 
her heights of inaccessibility. 

“The questions regard a certain side of Mrs. Barham’s 
nature, which, I have reason to believe was more familiar 
to you than to her husband,” Hutchins began, and it 
pleased him to be a bit intimate, a bit confidential in hi9 
manner. 

His quick intuition had told him this was a better way 
to get at this woman than by mere insistence. And the 
result proved he was right. 

“Yes,” and her lips curved into a cruel smile, “we women 
friends of Mrs. Barham know a lot about her that her 
husband does not dream of.” 

“Regarding her Bridge games,” suggested Hutchins. 

“Yes—that is, the extent of them. Mr. Barham knew, 
of course, that she played—lots—but he didn’t know, I’m 
sure, to what lengths she went to get the money to pay 
her debts.” 

Hutchins hated his task. He had many ungrateful 
duties to perform in his detective work, but the one that 
always most thoroughly revolted him was when he found 
it necessary to get damaging information against a woman 
from another woman. There was no escape, however, so 
he merely said: 

“How did she get it?” 

And the story that Mrs. Gardner told him was so 
incredible, so different from what he had expected, so 
much worse than the worst he had feared, that Detective 
Hutchins listened, heartsick and overwhelmed with sor- 



118 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


row for the dead woman and sympathy for her surviving 
husband. 

“You expected her here to play Bridge the night she 
died, then, Mrs. Gardner, did you not?” 

“Oh, yes, she was due here at eleven.” 

“And when she failed to come, did you telephone or make 
any inquiry?” 

“Oh, no; Madeleine was a law unto herself. If she 
chose to break an engagement at the last minute, she 
did so without a word. And it didn’t matter that way. 
It isn’t a club, or anything like that. We just have a 
friendly game now and then, and if any one doesn’t come, 
there are plenty of others.” 

“You think Mrs. Barham expected to come on here 
after she had made a stay at the Locke party?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose so. Mrs. Sayre said that Mrs. 
Barham told her she would be here at eleven or shortly 
after. But, as I say, no one ever depended on Mrs. Bar¬ 
ham’s word in such matters. She came and went, when 
and where she would.” 

“Did you ever hear her speak of Mr. Locke?” 

“Never! It’s the queerest thing. I should as soon have 
thought of hearing she had gone to the Battery as to 
Washington Square! I never knew her to go any place 
south of Fiftieth Street before! To a party, I mean. 
Who is the man?” 

“An artist—apparently a gentleman.” 

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose he killed her.” 

“Why not?” 

“Why would he—when he doesn’t know her?” 

“You’re not sure he didn’t know her.” 

“Oh, yes, I am. I knew all Maddy’s friends. He wasn’t 
a rich man?” 

“No, I think not.” 



MRS. GARDNER’S STORY 


119 


“Well, that wouldn’t matter, Maddy never got money 
from men. But I’m positive if she had known an artist in 
Washington Square we would have known of it. It could 
only have been as a joke—her going there, I mean. Some¬ 
body must have dared her—or—oh, I can’t think of any 
reason! It is utterly inexplicable to think of Madeleine 
Barham going there—alone! If she had asked some of us 
to go—as a lark, I could have understood. But to go 
alone—no, I can’t think of any reason—not of any reason 
whatever. Can you?” 

Hutchins looked at her. She was a good-looking woman, 
not handsome but well groomed and well made up. She 
was capable and efficient, he saw, and of the type that 
has what has been called generalship. He could well 
imagine her sponsoring successful Bridge games, and he 
could also picture her as having small sympathy with the 
unfortunate ones whose luck w T ent against them. 

However, he felt that he could learn no more from her 
concerning Mrs. Barham, and too, he felt he had learned 
quite enough. So, without further ado, he took his leave. 

A confab -with Inspector Dickson took place soon after, 
and the two men agreed that if the mystery was to be 
cleared up it would be done through investigations starting 
at the Barham end and not from the Locke house. 

“She’s the one to run down,” Dickson said, though 
Hutchins’ more sensitive nature winced at this way of 
putting it. “The wrong begins with her—wherever it leads 
to. Maybe Locke is entirely innocent. Maybe he’s shield¬ 
ing somebody-” 

“The Cutler girl,” suggested Hutchins. 

“I don’t know that Locke was interested in that child,” 
the inspector said, meditatively. “I hope he is, because 
that might help us get a line on him. If he’s in love with 
her, he’ll communicate with her, sure as shooting. But, as 





120 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


I see it, she’s a hero worshiper and he’s her hero. Which 
is a very different matter.” 

“But she must be kept in view,” Hutchins persisted. 

“Keep her, then. I incline more to the idea that Locke 
is somehow mixed up with Mrs, Barham’s affairs. It may 
be indirectly—but she never went to that party without 
some big vital reason for going. 

“You see, all her relatives, all her friends are dum- 
founded with amazement at her being there at all. Now, if 
it had been some foolish escapade, they would have known 
of it—or, say, have known of her predilection for that 
sort of thing. Instead of which, they’re all open-mouthed 
with surprise at her going. Now, add the fact that she 
dressed for it with greatest care and even expense—that 
Oriental rig cost a pretty penny!—and you must come to 
the conclusion that it was a big occasion for her. It 
meant a lot to her—whatever the lot was.” 

“Looks that way.” 

“Also, from your own story, she hesitated, even as she 
was getting ready. Her maid says she almost gave up 
the project. But she didn’t give it up—she carried it 
through. Common sense must tell us that she didn’t 
expect to meet her death there—but she did expect great 
things of some sort. There’s no other way to dope it out.” 

Hutchins agreed to that, and went away to think it 
over. 

Moreover, he wanted to» give the rooms another look, 
with the purpose of finding something of Mrs. Barham’s, 
of indicative value. Perhaps she had left some papers— 
notes—no, she wouldn’t do that. Well, any way, he went 
down to the studio. 

He was met by a very much disgusted caretaker and 
guard whom Dickson had stationed there for the day. 




MRS. GARDNER’S STORY 


121 


“What’s the matter, Glenn?” Hutchins asked, smiling 
at the chagrined one. 

“Foiled !” the other wailed. “Foiled! and by the Chink!” 

“Chinese Charley? What’s he done? Vamoosed?” 

“No; he’s here. Charley, come in here, and tell Mr. 
Hutchins that yarn.” 

Charley entered, silent-footed, calm, meekly respectful. 
Had it not been for a gleam in the Chinaman’s eye, 
Hutchins would have thought Glenn was imagining things. 

“It was a while ago,” Glenn burst forth, “and I was 
sitting around, when I heard Charley answer the telephone. 
Always heretofore, lie’s done that and then turned the 
thing over to me. 

“This time I heard him say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and 
then he hung up—and—guess who had been talking to 
him ?” 

“Who, Charley?” said Hutchins. 

“Misser Locke,” said the Oriental, imperturbably. 

“Mr. Locke! What did he say?” 

“Said Charley pay bills. Little small bills—papers, 
milk, so so. Says he will pay big bills. Says ‘good-by, 
Charley, maybe never come back. Good by, Charley.’ So 
I say, good-by. Dassall.” 

“‘Dassall,’ is it?” cried Hutchins, “well, that’s just 
about enough! Don’t look so done up, Glenn. What dif¬ 
ference would it have made if you had been on the wire?” 

“We could have traced the message-” 

“You can do that, anyway, but it won’t do a speck of 
good. Of course, he telephoned from some big pay sta¬ 
tion—Grand Central or some such place. Or from some 
corner drug store. And before you can do anything, he’s 
gone and mingled with the crowd! No, Glenn, all you 
could have done would have been to have made a fool of 




122 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


yourself over the telephone, begging him to tell you where 
he was! But, by Jinks, it shows he’s a cute one!” 

“Oh, he’s cute enough. But I don’t see such special 
shrewdness in telling Charley to pay the bills. Looks like 
bravado to me—unless it’s a game to get us to leave the 
place here.” 

“No; I don’t see it that way. I think he did it entirely 
to set Charley’s mind at rest. Also, I think he told the 
truth about not coming back. I doubt very much if we 
ever set eyes on Mr. Thomas Locke again, unless we go 
out and fetch him in, sorely against his will.” 

“Then the game is up,” and Glenn looked utterly 
disgusted. 

“Maybe and maybe not. Now, Charley, you slyboots, 
when Mr. Locke tells you to pay off the bills and close up 
accounts generally, where do you get the money, eh?” 

A threatening look from Hutchins’ eyes made the China¬ 
man revise his quite apparent intention not to tell. 

“I have the money already,” he said, with his sullen 
hauteur. 

“Where?” 

“At my home. Misser Locke, he gimme much money— 
ahead—I use it till all gone—then more come.” 

“Oh, I see. He gives you a sum of cash for petty 
expenses.” 

“Yes—that’s what he say—pettys.” 

“And you have enough—and a bit left over, eh?” 

“Yes”; was the grave reply. “Enough and the bit. 
And my wages for next month.” 

“Ah, very good. The small expense money, your wages 
a month ahead in lieu of notice. All in case our friend 
disappears suddenly or unexpectedly. Very good—ve-ry 
good! So, Glenn, we may deduce, I think, that friend 
Locke was not altogether unaware of the possibility of 





123 


MRS. GARDNER’S STORY 


his going off—and did go off. And we must think that 
when he said, so pleasantly to the door man, ‘Back in a 
minute,’ that he had no intention of coming back in a 
thousand years!” 

“Then he is the murderer?” 

“Oh, we can’t go so fast as that—but he must be in on 
the game somehow. Maybe there’s a lot more to this 
than we thought at first.” 

“A gang?” 

“No, idiot, not that! At least, I can’t see that element 
in it. But Locke was—oh, can’t you see Locke was —is 
something more than a mere artist?” 

“No, I can’t see it. But that doesn’t matter. He won’t 
be back here, whatever he is. Probably he’s on the rolling 
deep by this time.” 

“Probably. Now, you continue to hold the fort here— 
and incidentally keep an eye on that slant-eyed innocent, 
and Pve another errand.” 

Straight to Kate Vallon’s the detective went, and learned 
that Miss Cutler had returned to her own roof-tree. 

As this was only a pair of rooms, above those of Miss 
Vallon’s own, Hutchins skipped up there and demanded 
admittance. 

The girl who opened the door to him looked very dif¬ 
ferent from the scared, forlorn young woman whom he 
had previously interviewed, and also from the girl who 
had testified at the inquiry. 

She was, though not exactly smiling, at least in a satis¬ 
fied, contented frame of mind, and Hutchins, though 
scarcely invited, went in and sat dowm in her tiny studio. 

“Miss Cutler,” he said, in that kindly way of his, “give 
me just a moment, without making a fuss about it, won’t 
you?” 

“Surely,” she said, and sat quietly down opposite him 



124 


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Her fair hair, not curly, but with a wave in it, shook as 
she raised her eyes to his, expectantly. 

“Go ahead,” she said, demurely, and he could have sworn 
she was secretly laughing at him. 

Like a flash the truth dawned in him. 

“Pearl Jane Cutler,” he said, and his voice was impres¬ 
sive in its earnestness, “I know why you’ve bucked up! I 
know what has happened to you!” 

“What?” she said, a little taken aback at his speech. 
“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I do. I mean this.” He leaned forward a little to 
whisper: 

“You’ve had a telephone message from Thomas Locke!” 

Pearl Jane w r ent white. 

“What—what do you mean?” she cried; “how—how 
ridiculous!” 

“Ridiculous, if you like, but the truth. Now, then, what 
did he say?” 

“I don’t see how I can answer that, for I don’t admit 
the truth of your—your guess.” 

“But it isn’t a guess—it’s a certainty. I know it. 
Nothing short of that would have given you this cocksure 
attitude—this little secret Bluebird of Happiness smile in 
the midst of all the doubt and uncertainty you are still 
experiencing! Come, little one, tell me all about it.” 

“No, I won’t do it. You’ve no right to ask. Good-by, 
Mr. Hutchins,” and with a graceful little bow, she rose, 
flew into the adjoining bedroom and locked the door. Nor 
would she respond to any further summons. 




» 


CHAPTER X 

BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 

Perhaps most people will agree that the dreariest expe¬ 
rience they have ever known has been the returning to their 
homes after a funeral has been held there. 

No matter how much some kind friend stays behind to 
rearrange the furniture and restore things to their natural 
and normal aspect, the house looks different—the place 
seems empty. 

After Madeleine’s funeral, Andrew Barham came into 
his house, accompanied by Mrs. Selden and several friends 
or relatives from out of town. 

Barham would have willingly given a goodly sum could 
he have gone off by himself to his own rooms, but that was 
not to be thought of. Heknew he was obliged to stay—to hear 
his mother-in-law and her guests mull over the funeral, as 
if it had been a social function. To discuss the flowers, 
the music, the people present, and every detail, down to 
the very appearance of the dead Madeleine. 

These things having been worn threadbare by discussion, 
Marcia Selden next invited attention to herself and her 
lonely and forlorn life as it must be henceforward. 

“You still have me, Mother,” Barham said, kindly, as 
she bewailed her utter isolation. “And I shall always do 
my best to make you happy.” 

“Happy ! As if I could ever be happy again, without my 
dear Madeleine. But I’m an old woman—I probably shall 
not trouble anybody for long.” 

A new black-bordered handkerchief was somewhat osten- 

125 


126 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


tatiously flaunted and several feminine voices murmured 
polite denials of the last statement. 

“Yes,” went on Mrs. Selden, who was thoroughly enjoy¬ 
ing her martyr role, “I shall soon follow my darling to 
the land beyond.” 

“Well, meantime, Mother,” Barham tried to turn the 
trend of conversation to a pleasanter theme, “I shall do all 
I can to help you bear your loss-” 

“You don’t care that our Maddy is gone forever! You 
don’t care-” 

“Now, Marcia, stop that,” her sister remonstrated. 
“It’s unfair to Andrew. He and Maddy were all right— 
a whole lot happier together than you and your husband 
ever were!” 

“Sarah, you hush! I won’t listen to such slander! 
Andrew, will you put Sarah out of the house?” 

“Oh, come, now, Mother, we don’t want Sarah to go 
until after dinner, anyway.” 

“Dinner! I’d like to know who could eat dinner. No 
one but me really mourns our darling.” 

“Yes, w r e do, Marcia,” her sister said, “but these things 
have to be borne. I lost my dear daughter, too, you 
know-” 

“Oh, you, Sarah! You have no heart. Now, I’m a 
sensitive nature, an affectionate nature-” 

“You are, Mother,” Andrew said, sincerely. “But let 
us try to bear our sorrow bravely and help one 
another-” 

“Andrew, you make me sick! You and your preaching! 
Pity your weren’t a minister! Claudine, take me to my 
room. I must be alone.” 

“She’ll stay alone about five minutes,” Mrs. Beresford 
said, as Marcia went away with the long-suffering Clau¬ 
dine. “What are you going to do, Andrew?” 








BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 


127 


“I don’t know, Sarah. I am more than willing to do my 
duty by Madeleine’s mother—but, you see how impossible 
she is. Nothing I say or do pleases her, though I honestly 
try. Of course, I can’t send her away, nor can I persuade 
her to go away. But I don’t see how I can live with her. 
It was easier when Maddy was here, but now—well, I shall 
do whatever she wants.” 

“She wants just to stay here and ballyrag the life out 
of you,” said Marcia Selden’s sister, with true insight. 

“Then she’ll have to do that.” 

“And you’ll stand it?” 

“It isn’t ‘standing it,’ Sarah. It’s simply doing my 
duty, as I see it, by my wife’s mother. But I shall most 
certainly reserve the privilege of going away as frequently 
as I like, for as long as I like. The house and servants 
will be at her disposal, but I couldn’t bear to be here all 
the time.” 

“Of course you couldn’t, Andrew. You’re quite justified 
in going off all you choose. You might take a trip to 
Europe.” 

“I might go to Kamchatka! But I’m not deciding on 
anything at present. You must know, Sarah, there’s a lot 
yet to be done in connection with—with Maddy’s death.” 

“Oh, that—yes. Of course, that artist person killed 
her. Can’t they get hold of him?” 

“Apparently not.” 

“But you don’t have to mix up with it, do you, Andrew? 
I should think you’d rather never know who did it, than 
to dig into what may be a horrid—scandal-” 

“What do you know about Maddy’s secrets, Sarah?” 

“Don’t you ask me, Drew. If you want to know any¬ 
thing—go to her friends—they’ll be ready enough to tell 
you.” 




128 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Andrew Barham went off to his own rooms to think it all 
out. 

He had a small library of his own, quite apart from the 
great book-lined place Madeleine called the Library, and 
here he went and locked himself in, bidding his servants 
refuse him to all comers. 

What should he do—what could he do, regarding several 
great and important issues. 

Perhaps the first was his mother-in-law. 

But that he soon settled. He would let her be the 
unquestioned head of the house, so far as management and 
home rule were concerned. 

Then, if her irritable temper and unpleasant disposi¬ 
tion made him too uncomfortable, he would go away either 
permanently or for long temporary journeys. It was a 
little hard to be pushed out of his own home, but his 
loyalty to his dead wife and his sense of duty to her mother 
made no other plans possible. 

Next—he must clear up this business of Maddy’s wrong¬ 
doing. He didn’t know exactly what it was that people 
meant by their veiled innuendoes, but he proposed to find 
out. 

Then there was that matter of the Thomas Locke studio 
to be taken up. What he should do regarding that, he 
hadn’t decided. It would take a good bit of thinking. 

He wondered if the police would ever track down Locke. 
If the artist would ever be brought to book and asked 
concerning his acquaintance with the wife of Andrew 
Barham. And if so, he wondered what Locke would say. 

As Madeleine had said, Drew w T as always wondering. 

And he sat now, in deep thought, his mind racing from 
Marcia Selden to Thomas Locke: from Madeleine to— 
well, to himself, Andrew Barham—who, after all, was the 
biggest factor in his wonderings. 



BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 


129 


Finally, he picked up the telephone and called Nick 
Nelson, who got around to him in the shortest possible 
time. 

“Well,” Barham said, after they had discussed matters 
of lesser moment, “now, out with it, Nick, all about Maddy. 
Tell me the worst. As you know, very frequently other 
people know more about a man’s wife than he knows 
himself.” 

“I’ll tell you, Drew,” Nelson said, gravely, “because you 
ought to know. To begin with, Maddy played Bridge for 
far higher stakes than you ever dreamed she did. She 
would lose hundreds, sometimes thousands, in an evening.” 

“Maddy! Thousands!” 

“Perhaps not often thousands, but almost always hun¬ 
dreds. She was what they call born to bad luck— 
always held miserable hands-” 

“Oh, come now, Nick, hands even up in the long run.” 

“Not always. Not with some people. But, anyway, 
Maddy was an erratic player, and a wild one. ... If she 
won a pile, she’d raise the stakes and lose it all on a final 
hand, or something like that. She had all the impulses of 
a born gambler—she must have had a gambling ancestor— 
and yet, she always paid.” 

“How could she?” 

“That’s just it. She borrowed at first, Drew, from all 
her friends. Her funny code of ethics let her owe a loan, 
but not a card debt.” 

“She wasn’t unique in that respect.” 

“No; well, when she could borrow no more, when she 
had exhausted her mother’s generosity—and purse, prob¬ 
ably—she resorted to—I can’t say it, but she knew secrets 
about her woman friends that she threatened to tell unless 
they paid her.” 

“Blackmail!” and Andrew Barham gasped in horror. 





130 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“You needn’t use the word. It seems Maddy was just 
gay and laughing about it. She’d run in to see a friend, 
she’d hint of something she knew—and then she’d ask for 
a loan of a few hundreds—or more, according to the 
importance of the secret.” 

“How did she learn these things?” 

“Oh, every woman knows her neighbors’ secrets—and 
they often hold them over each other’s heads, as a rod in 
pickle. But they rarely get money on them—they’d be 
afraid.” 

“Maddy knew no such thing as fear.” 

“No. But she didn’t realize that what she was doing 
was really a crime. Well, then, maybe instead of paying 
her, some woman would tell a bit of scandal about some 
other woman—that would give Maddy a fresh start. Any 
way—that’s the way things were.” 

“How did you learn it all?” 

“Emmy Gardner told me. She came to me in real 
distress, fearing Maddy would get into trouble. Emmy 
asked me to come to you about it—but I didn’t think it 
was my business to do so. I didn’t know whether Emmy 
was actuated by real concern for Maddy, as she pretended, 
or whether in it was but malicious revenge on her own 
part.” 

“Good old Nick, for telling me now. The next thing is 
to keep it secret. Can that be done?” 

“From whom?” 

“From everybody who doesn’t already know it. But, 
primarily, from Mrs. Selden. I hope she’ll never find it out. 
She idolized the child, and it would grieve her so deeply.” 

“We can probably keep it from her—unless some busy¬ 
body tattles.” 

“Claudine knows ?” 


*s 



BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 


131 


“I’ve been told that Maddy used her schemes on 

Claudine-” 

“No!” 

“So Emmy said; but the details don’t matter so much. 
Drew. You can fix Claudine more easily than any one 
else.” 

“This explains a horrible note I got from a Mrs. Gibbs 
—saying she is a creditor of Maddy’s.” 

“Well, ask her for a statement. Those women will be 
glad to keep still for fear something might come out about 
themselves. What I’m worried about is this murder trial.” 

“Trial? How can there be a trial with no one to try?” 

“I mean the murder inquiry. The plans of the police 
include only two main issues; to find Locke and to learn 
all about Madeleine’s past.” 

“Why the latter?” 

“They think it will give them a line on the motive for 
the murder, and perhaps a hint as to the murderer.” 

“Wasn’t it the artist?” 

“Ma}Ue and maybe not. I’m interested in that chap. 
Drew. Do you know, after the murder—I mean, supposing 
for the moment that he was the criminal—after the deed, 
he calmly walked downstairs, gave his masquerade costume 
to his servant, put on his hat, and walked out of the front 
door, saying to the doorman he’d be back in a few 
moments! Did you ever hear of such colossal nerve?” 

“Never! How could he? Perhaps he didn’t do it, after 
all.” 

“And then—he went out to Fifth Avenue, and climbed 
up to the top of a bus and went off.” 

“How do they know all this ?” 

“It seems somebody saw him—some woman who lives 
next door, I believe, and she was watching the revelers that 
night.” 




132 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“And they’ve never seen or heard from him since?” 

“I believe not—unless since I’ve seen the people down 
there.” 

“You speak as if you knew them.” 

“No, but I saw several at the inquiry, and they’re not 
bad at all.” 

“What do you mean by not bad? I don’t suppose 
they’re Hottentots.” 

“No; but they seem really interesting. Seem to have 
more—personality, more brains, than some of our own 
crowd.” 

“They wouldn’t have to be overburdened at that.” 

“I know it. And they say—that is, Mr. Jarvis told me, 
that Locke is a very worth-while chap.” 

“Not a heavy villain, then?” 

“No; sort of a dreamer, and rather intellectual. Says 
he’s a good pal-” 

“Look here, Nick,” Barham interrupted him, “if Locke 
didn’t kill Maddy, who did? Could it have been any one 
that is mixed up in this other matter? This blackmail— 
yes, I will use the word. I never mince phraseology! My 
wife did blackmail her friends—and in so far as I can, I’m 
going to makegood her debts and hush up thewholematter. I 
am responsible for everything Maddy did—just so far as 
I can be responsible. Now here’s my point. If it could 
be that somebody who had been her victim is at the bottom 
of this murder business—then I don’t want it found out. 
See? I’d rather Maddy’s murderer should go unpunished 
than that Madeleine’s name should be dragged through a 
trial and all that, whereby her life secrets must be laid 
bare.” 

“I see,” and Nelson thought deeply. “But, Drew, it is 
impossible, as I see it, with the murder occurring down 
there, as it did, there should be any connection between it 





BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 


133 


and the Bridge business. No, it couldn’t be. The more I 
think it over, the more I think there was some mistake. I 
mean Maddy was thought to be some one else—the blow 
was intended for another woman.” 

“I hadn’t thought of that. It might be,” and Barham 
looked hopeful. “It would be awful enough, but I’d liefer 
that, Nick, than to know that somebody really wanted 
Maddy’s life.” 

“Well, the thing to do is to get Locke. Then, if he’s the 
good sort that Jarvis thinks him, and if he didn’t do it, he 
can doubtless help us a whole lot.” 

“But if he didn’t do it, why is he hiding?” 

“There you go again—round the circle! I don’t know, 
I’m sure—but there could be reasons. Say he’s innocent, 
but there’s circumstantial evidence against him. Say he’s 
innocent, but he’s shielding somebody else. Say he met 
with foul play himself.” 

Barham nodded. “Ingenious but not very plausible. 
However, I doubt if he’ll ever be found. And, in that case, 
they’ll drop the whole matter, won’t they?” 

“Not so long as the}*' can think of some other way to 
look. That Hutchins is an alert sort, and Dickson is a 
smart man. Also, they’re interested. It’s an unusual case 
—and a picturesque case. Forgive me, Drew, but you’re 
so sensible, I’m sure you can see for yourself, that a mys¬ 
tery culminating in the death of a society belle, is more 
intriguing than an ordinary case of murder. Then there is 
Pearl Jane.” 

Barham looked up. “Who’s she?” 

“She’s the Miss Cutler I spoke to you about. Did you 
ever hear such a name? Pearl Jane! Well, it seems she 
was found bending over the body and there was blood on 
her sleeve—also there was blood on Locke’s sleeve-” 







134 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Locke’s sleeve! Why, you haven’t told me halfl 
Locke’s sleeve!” 

“I mean the sleeve of the costume he wore at the ball. 
The monk’s robe—not his own coat. You see, he flung the 
robe to the Chinese servant as he left, and they afterward 
found a smear of blood on the front of it.” 

“What do the Square people think about their fellow 
artist? Do they suspect him?” 

“They seem not to know much about him. They seem 
not to know much about one another. As Jarvis says, 
they keep pretty much to themselves and when they get 
together for an occasional hobnob, they just talk shop.” 

“I see.” Barham didn’t appear deeply interested. 

“And then, too, it seems this Locke is in the habit of 
going off on sketching trips or something and staying for 
days at a time.” 

“I suppose all that’s in my stenographer’s report—I’ve 
not had time to read it yet. Now, Nick, as to hushing up 
this miserable business of Maddy’s. Shall I go to see the 
women, and beg or bribe them to keep still about it?” 

“Can’t I go for you—I hate to have you subjected 
to-” 

“I don’t care what I’m subjected to—and, of course, 
you understand, it’s for her sake—hers and her mother’s. 
I could bear it, if I had to, the nine days’ wonder and all 
that—but I can’t have my dead wife’s name held up to 
scorn if I can prevent it by any possible means. Any sug¬ 
gestions, old chap?” 

Nelson looked at the man before him. Barham’s fine 
face was set in that firm way his friends knew so well. Not 
so much stubbornness as bulldog determination and per¬ 
severance. Nelson knew that Andrew would move heaven 
and earth so far as he was able, to save his wife’s 
reputation. 





BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 


135 


And it would be a terrible thing to have such a stigma 
on her memory. It would have been bad enough had the 
story been made public while she was alive, but to be dis¬ 
closed after her death, and to fall heavily on the already 
overburdened soul of Andrew Barham, would, Nelson felt, 
be almost too much for the man. 

Yet Barham’s face seemed to indicate that he yet hoped 
to cope with this trouble. It seemed to gleam with a will 
power that would find some way to meet the enemy, to 
brave the impending disaster, to conquer the danger. 

His strong white teeth were set together with a certain 
forcefulness of his lower jaw, that betokened to Nelson’s 
keen eye not only a decision but a desperate will to make 
good that decision. 

“No positive suggestions, Drew,” Nelson said, in answer 
to his query; “merely a negative suggestion not to go 
ahead faster than need be. It’s not at all certain that 
those women will tell—anything. More likely, they won’t. 
Why would they? Everything they say against Maddy 
would implicate themselves.” 

“But others—those who know about it—}^et are not 
deeply involved-” 

“Oh, give them the benefit of the doubt. I don’t believe 
they would tell just to make trouble-” 

“I know them better than you do, Nick. I’ve heard 
Maddy and her mother talk gossip until my hair fairly 
stood on end, at the tables, of woman’s inhumanity to 
woman. Yet, your advice is good in the main. I’ll go 
slowly, but I’ll find out and pay such debts as that the 
Gibbs woman speaks of; and I’ll call on Emmy Gardner 
and Rosamond Sayre—they were Maddy’s nearest friends, 
and see what they can do to help me.” 

“And ask them to try to keep the whole matter from 
Mrs. Selden.” 





136 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Yes; now, the thing is, the police. Do you suppose 
they’ve any inkling of this thing as yet?” 

“Can’t say. All I know is, they’re trying to probe into 
Maddy’s secrets, and—it’s a house of cards.” 

“Yes; in more senses than one!” and Barham smiled 
ruefully at his melancholy joke. “Well, I can’t sit still— 
I chafe at restraint or inaction. Let’s call up that 
Hutchins and ask him. You do it.” 

Not anxious for the job, but ready to help his friend, 
Nick Nelson called up the detective. 

Hutchins didn’t know Nelson was at Barham’s house, 
and w T as asked to speak freely. 

“Well, yes,” he said, as Nick intimated his interest. “I 
did get a line on that matter. It seems the lady was— 
well, she was pretty rash in the measures she took to—to 
replenish her exchequer! I’d rather not say these things 
over the telephone—I’d rather not say them at all—but 
as Mr. Barham’s counsel, you’ve a right to know—yes, 
Mr. Nelson, I did find out some things, and when you want 
to see me, I’ll come and talk to you about ’em.” 

“Tell him to come to-morrow,” Andrew directed, as, with 
his hand over the transmitter. Nelson reported. “At } T our 
place.” 

So Nelson asked the detective to come to see him next 
day—and, incidentally asked him to keep the matter to 
himself, at least until they could confer over it. 

“Never fear! I won’t say a word, till I have to. It 
knocked me fair between the eyes! I never heard of such 
a thing before. No wonder what happened, did happen!” 

Nelson hung up the receiver, and turned to Barham with 
a troubled face. He repeated his w r hole conversation with 
Hutchins, and said: 

“I begin to think, Drew, that it was something to do 
with all that, that brought about Maddy’s fate.” 




BARHAM LEARNS THE TRUTH 


137 


“But how, how, Nick, could any of our crowd be 
mixed up with that painter? You don’t think he was a 
gambler, do you?” 

“Oh, Lord, no. Jarvis says he doesn’t think Locke 
knows one card from another. Those people never play 
cards.” 

“Then how, or why, would any of that lot have anything 
against Maddy?” 

“I can’t see that they could—but some one else might 
have planned to meet her there.” 

“Who knew she was going? Why did she go? How 
did she know of the place? Why-” 

“Let up on that, Drew. We know she did go there, will¬ 
ingly, and purposely.” 




CHAPTER XI 


AT THE STUDIO 

After Nelson had gone home, Barham sent for 
Claudine. 

“How is Mrs. Selden?” he asked first. 

“She’s a little calmer, sir. But now and then she has 
a spell—oh, a spell! Half hysterics, half grief. And— 
I’m sorry, Mr. Barham, but I can’t stay on.” 

“What, Claudine, you would desert at this awful crisis?” 

“I should never have left Madame Barham, I loved her. 
But Madame Selden—I do not love.” 

“But stay for a time, Claudine, for my sake. What 
could I do with Madame Selden, without you? She 
wouldn’t take kindly to a new maid, I’m sure. Stay a 
month longer, Claudine, at double wages, will you?” 

“Yes, Monsieur, I’ll do that. Don’t think me mercenary, 
but, I want to save up the money for—for-” 

“I know, Claudine, you’re to be married. Now, tell me, 
did my wife owe you money—aside from your wages?” 

“Yes, Monsieur,” Claudine said, after a slight hesitation. 

“How much?” 

“Five hundred dollars.” 

“Whew! Where did you ever get so much?” 

“It was my savings. Madame said if I would lend them 
for a little bit, she would return it with a large fee— 
bonus.” 

“You will be paid, don’t worry. Claudine, did she say 
anything else? Did she ever say that if you didn’t lend her 
what she wanted, she-” 





AT THE STUDIO 


139 


“Yes, Monsieur.’’ The maid spoke very simply. “She 
did. I understand—I knew it was a wrong—but what 
could I do? She knew something—ah, it was the tiniest 
peccadillo—but it was my Carl. He—he-” 

“Never mind, Claudine, I don’t want the details. Now, 
if I pay you double what Madame owed you, and double 
wages, will you stay with Madame Selden for a time—say, 
until your marriage, and also—say no word to any one 
of—of Madame Barham’s affairs?” 

“I will—yes, Monsieur, I will.” 

“Very well. Now, one thing more, Claudine. Who knew 
that Madame Barham was going to a fancy dress party 
that night?” 

“Nobody—not even Madame Selden. Ah, yes, Madame 
Sayre came over—but for a moment, while I was dressing 
Madame, and perhaps she knew; I don’t know as to that. 
When Madame Sayre came, my Madame bade me leave the 
room.” 

“I see. Very well, Claudine, you may go. Remember all 
I have said.” 

Alone again, Barham gave himself up to thought once 
more. The man did little else but think these times. He 
had canceled his business engagements, he read not at all, 
he refused himself to all but the most insistent callers, and 
though kind and deferential to his mother-in-law, he saw as 
little of her as possible. 

Marcia Selden forgave him this, for she was now 
deeply engrossed in going over her daughter’s possessions. 
Barham had given her all of Madeleine’s personal belong¬ 
ings, even her jewels, and it was no inconsiderable gift. 
He had recommended that some souvenirs be presented to 
friends, but this was merely suggestion, all decisions were 
to be Mrs. Selden’s own. 

She was like a child with a new toy, and kept Claudine 




140 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


busy making frequently revised lists of the beneficiaries. 

It was a troublesome process, for no sooner did Marcia 
Selden decide on a gift, than immediately the thing took on 
a new value in her eyes, and she wanted to keep it for 
herself. 

Barham, discovering all this, thanked his lucky stars 
that he had chanced to provide her with such an absorbing 
occupation, as it left him more time to himself—more time 
to think. 

After hearing of Rosamond Sayre’s call on Madeleine 
the night of the masquerade, he determined to see her, for 
there might be some bit of information to be gleaned from 
her. 

The appointment to meet the detective at Nelson’s was 
not until four o’clock, so he telephoned Rosamond to ask 
for an interview before that. 

She graciously consented to see him, which surprised 
him a little, as her note to him had been really a formal 
expression of sympathy. 

As he neared her house, however, he found himself dread¬ 
ing the call he had come to make. 

Yet, when they met, Rosamond’s manner put him quite 
at his ease, and he was glad he had come. 

“You dear man,” she said, holding out both hands. 
“I’m glad to see you—do sit down. I’ve wanted to tell you 
in person how sorry I feel for you, and how I wish I 
could do something to help.” 

“No, Rosamond—there’s nothing any one can do to 
help. I’m grateful for sympathy, of course—but—the 
truth is, nothing helps. The awfulness of the whole thing 
is beyond all help. Now, let’s be frank. I’ve come to ask 
you a straightforward question. You played Bridge a 
lot with Maddy, didn’t you?” 

“All the time, practically.” 



AT THE STUDIO 


141 


“Did she—did she ever borrow money from you?” 

“All the time—practically.” 

“Pay it back?” 

“Not always—sometimes.” 

“And—Rosamond, you’ve no idea how hard it is for me 
to say this—but I must—if you didn’t lend it—did she 
ever threaten-” 

Mrs. Sayre gave a broken little laugh. 

“Of course she did, Andrew. She used to threaten all of 
us. You see, Maddy played in horrible luck, and fche 
always wanted to recoup. But, good gracious, man, don’t 
take it so to heart! That was nothing, that she should 
say she’d tell our little secrets if we didn’t lend her a hun¬ 
dred or two. Why so upset over it?” 

“But—but, Rosamond, it isn’t so trifling a matter as 
you say. There’s—there’s a pretty bad name goes with 
that sort of thing.” 

“Oh, well, don’t use it in connection with Maddy. For¬ 
get it, Drew, nobody is going to hold it up against her. 
Especially now—the poor girl is gone. Have you any— 
any idea-” 

“Who killed her? No, not the slightest. And that’s 
another thing, Rose. Claudine says you were over at the 
house that night, and up in Maddy’s room while she 
dressed. Did she tell you where she was going?” 

“I was only there for a minute—and—well, I may as well 
tell you, she called me over to ask me for some money.” 

“She did ! And you let her have it ?” 

“Oh, yes, that is, I agreed to take it to Emmy Gardner’s 
for her. I did so—but the poor girl never came to get it.” 

Barham mused. “What did you think that night, when 
she failed to come?” 

“I—oh, I didn’t think much about it. Maddy always 
did as she liked. Harrison went with me, and we spoke of 









142 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Madeleine’s absence, but we didn’t think of it seriously at 
all.” 

“No, I suppose not. Didn’t she tell you, Rose, that she 
planned to go to the Locke place before she went to 
Emmy’s ?” 

The man looked at her earnestly, as if much depended on 
her answer. 

But Mrs. Sayre said, “No, I don’t think she did. No, I 
remember now—she said she was going on an errand first, 
but she didn’t say where.” 

“And didn’t she have on that fancy dress?” 

“No; she only had a kimono—a mere dressing gown.” 

“And you came right home, from our house—and you 
went right to the Gardners’? Forgive me if I seem inquis¬ 
itive—I’ve a notion in my head.” 

“I came home, and dressed,” Mrs. Sayre said, striving 
to remember. “Then I went down to my dressmaker’s for 
a few minutes for an important fitting, and then I came 
back and picked up Harrison and we went to Emmy’s.” 

“What time did you get there?” 

“A little after eleven—I remember we were the last to 
arrive. Why all the catechism, Drew?” 

“Nothing,” and his brows came together in perplexity. 
“I just want to find somebody to whom Madeleine men¬ 
tioned that artist chap. How did she come to go there?” 

“Can’t you imagine?” and pretty Mrs. Sayre wrinkled 
her own brows in similar puzzlement. 

“No, I simply cannot. I never supposed she knew such 
people.” 

“What do you mean by such people?” 

“People outside her own circle or circumstances.” 

“Well, apparently she did. What are you going to do, 
Drew, as to finding out-” 

“The truth? I’m not obliged to do anything, Rose, the 






AT THE STUDIO 


143 


police have it in charge. And to tell you the truth, I 
believe I’d rather never know the murderer than to have 
Madeleine’s past dragged out to the light and all this 
miserable Bridge business made public.” 

“I don’t blame you!” and Mrs. Sayre nodded her head, 
emphatically. “I should think you’d very much rather 
have the whole affair hushed up and utterly forgotten. 
Do have it that way—Drew, all Maddy’s friends would 
prefer it, I know.” 

“It isn’t up to me to decide,” Barham said, with a sigh, 
and soon thereafter he took his leave. 

“I still can’t find out where Madeleine heard of Locke,” 
he mused, as he went on to Nelson’s office. “I can’t seem 
to find out anything! Well, there’s one thing I am sure 
of!” and by that time he w r as at the door. 

“Well, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins said, “your reward offer 
has borne fruit already.” 

“What, you’ve found Locke?” and Barham showed real 
interest. 

“Not quite, but a man has put in an appearance who 
claims to be Tommy Locke’s brother.” 

“Has he a brother?” 

“According to this chap he has. But between you and 
me, I ha’e ma doots. You see, any one can lay claim to 
the relationship and, since Locke isn’t here to pass on it, 
who’s to prove or disprove it?” 

“Can’t you wait a bit, and see if Locke turns up?” 

“Just what we’re going to do. Now, Mr. Nelson, sup¬ 
pose you tell Mr. Barham your plan.” 

“Why, Drew, I’ve been thinking that I might go down 
to the Locke place and rake over everything. I know the 
detectives have done it, but I think I might find some clue 
they overlooked.” 



144 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Barham gave a slight smile. “I remember hearing a man 
of your stamp say, not long ago, that he had no detective 
instinct.” 

“That’s just it,” cried Nelson, triumphantly, “I believe 
a man with common sense and a good pair of eyes in his 
head might find out more than one of these transcendent 
sleuths.” 

“It doesn’t sound much to me—but if you’re anxious to 
go, go ahead. What, exactly, are you going to look for? 
Footprints?” 

“No.” Nelson refused to smile. “No, but I believe in 
among Locke’s letters or papers-” 

“He hasn’t anv,” said Hutchins. 

“Well, that’s suspicious in and of itself. If that man 
tore up or destroyed all his papers the day before he dis¬ 
appeared, then that proves, to my mind, that he meant to 
disappear. There’s that.” 

“There’s that,” Andrew agreed. “But where does that 
get you?” 

“That’s what I want to know, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins 
said. 

“Oh, well,” Nelson gave in, “if you two are both down on 
my plan, I’ll give it up. What better can either of you 
propose?” 

“I propose we give it all up,” Barham said, speaking 
gravely. 

“The whole hunt?” exclaimed Hutchins; “withdraw the 
reward ?” 

“Well, Mr. Hutchins, let us put all our cards on the 
table. You have found out, I understand, some very 
damaging information against my wife. Please do not try 
to spare my feelings. I can meet the blow. I am prepared 
for it. Just how much did you find out?” 

“Since I know you want me to be frank, I will simply 





AT THE STUDIO 


145 


state that I learned that Mrs. Barham was in the habit of 
using a form of society blackmail to extort money from 
her friends.” 

“From what I have learned, I believe that to be the 
truth.” 

Barham spoke with an infinite sadness in his voice, but 
with his head erect, and face impassive, as if he cared for 
no word of regret or sympathy from any one. 

It was true that the man’s sensitive pride revolted at the 
thought of any pity or even kindness. He preferred to 
bear his burden alone, and except from his very few near 
and dear friends he wanted no recognition of the state of 
the case, beyond the bare facts that must be faced. 

“First, Mr. Hutchins, I shall ask you to keep this matter 
from Mrs. Selden, if it be possible. I think I am within 
my legal rights as well as ethical in asking this. She is an 
old lady and devoted to her daughter’s memory. The 
grief of such a disclosure would almost kill her.” 

“Rest assured, Mr. Barham, she shall never learn it 
from me—or from any of our people.” 

“Next, I should like to hush up the whole affair. If this 
is not possible—with the full consent of the police—then I 
am ready to face the music—to let the law take its course. 
But, I am quite prepared to pay a goodly sum to have the 
case forgotten—and this is in no sense compounding a 
felony, or even doing anything dishonorable. It is merely 
an expression of my willingness to let the murderer of my 
wife go free, in order that the wrong-doing of my wife may 
not be made public. Is there a chance of that, Mr. 
Hutchins ?” 

“Not a chance!” the detective shook his head. “Of 
course, the plan you propose is out of the question, as you 
yourself would see, if you thought over it a little more. 
Also, the machinery already set in motion cannot now be 






146 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


stopped. The posters are out, offering a reward of Ten 
Thousand Dollars for the capture of the murderer, or any 
information that leads to that result.” 

“Not for the finding of Locke?” asked Barham. 

“No; I received your message in time to omit that part 
of it.” 

“Yes, I changed that,” Barham said, in answer to 
Nelson’s unspoken question. “You see, it can do no good 
to get Locke, if he isn’t the murderer. I mean, it isn’t 
worth ten thousand dollars to get him just to talk to.” 

“No,” Nelson agreed. But he didn’t quite understand. 
Surely, Barham had been most anxious to capture Locke. 

“Now, go ahead with your hunt,” Barham said, “and, 
look here, Nick, I rather cotton to that plan of yours to 
go and search the Locke apartment—and I believe I’ll go 
with you.” 

“Good!” Nelson cried. “I’m sure it is a good idea, and 
I do believe we might find something of interest if not 
evidence. Shall we go now?” 

“Would it be better to go at night?” 

“No,” Hutchins said, “let’s go now—let’s all go. I’d 
like to see how you people work.” 

“I don’t dignify it by such a high sounding term as 
that,” Nelson smiled. “More like playing at detecting. 
But there’s always a chance.” 

So the three, in Barham’s car, went down to the studio 
of the missing Thomas Locke. 

The place looked much as it did the day Nelson attended 
the inquest there, but not much as Barham had seen it the 
night of the Bal Masque. Then it had been gay with 
lanterns and flowers. Now it was in its plain, everyday 
furnishings, and, though properly in order, and tidily 
cleared up by the Chinaman, yet he had not been allowed 



AT THE STUDIO 


147 


to sweep or dust, lest he disturb what might eventually be 
clues or evidence. 

“Uninteresting place,” Barham said, glancing round 
the studio. “No color—no atmosphere.” 

“Now, I like it,” Nelson said. “It is restful compared 
to the glaring and tawdry effects in many such places.” 

“Well, go on with your sleuthing, Nick, I’ll watch you,” 
and Barham sat down in one of the fireside chairs. 

Nelson looked a little at a loss, but began to make a raid 
on a desk that stood in a corner. 

“Here’s a big bunch of letters, Drew, you look these 
over, while I dig up more.” 

But inside of ten minutes Barham informed him that 
the sheaf contained nothing at all but receipted bills for 
canvases, paints and brushes. 

Nor did further search produce anything of more impor¬ 
tance. Nelson went back to the smoking room—and, dis¬ 
inclined to go there again, Barham remained in the studio. 
Hutchins followed Nelson, hoping to get a grain or a 
nugget of information. 

Left to himself, Barham opened a few of the cabinet 
drawers. Nelson had been through them all and, as he 
said, they held nothing but painting things or trifling 
knickknacks. 

“Where’s the Chinaman?” Nelson asked, as they 
returned to Barham. 

“It’s his day off,” Hutchins explained. “Though he has 
most days off now. He doesn’t seem to know what to do. 
You know he heard from Locke, Mr. Barham?” 

“No, did he?” 

“Yes, and Locke said he could pay the small bills—the 
Chink has petty cash—and that he, Locke, would settle the 
larger accounts.” 

“Then, Mr. Hutchins, you must realize that Locke will 



148 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


never return. To my mind, it is self-evident that though 
he is near by—at least, in the city—he is clever enough to 
remain hidden.” 

“Not necessarily in the city,” said Nelson. “He may 
have telephoned on a long distance.” 

“Right,” Barham agreed. “At any rate, he is quite 
capable, as it looks to me, of taking care of himself, and 
keeping in hiding as long as he chooses. I think, if you 
please, Mr. Hutchins, I will take a look in the den. I 
hesitated, as it is a place of painful associations, but 
there is a chance I might see something of informative 
value.” 

But when Andrew Barham stood in the little room, at 
the very spot where his wife was, doubtless, felled to her 
death, he could see no shred, no bit of evidence. 

The tears were in his eyes as he turned away. 

One of the heavy bronze book-ends still stood on the 
table, the other had been taken away by the police as the 
weapon of murder. 

And then, still in a spirit of investigation, the three went 
into Locke’s bedroom and bathroom. Nothing met their 
eyes that offered any ground for surmise or conclusion. 
Slowly they retraced their way downstairs. 

“Come on, Drew,” said Nelson, as he followed the detec¬ 
tive down. 

“In a minute,” Barham replied, pausing for another 
glance into the den. 

It was by no means a morbid curiosity, but there were 
many conflicting feelings in Andrew Barham’s mind just 
then. 

He wondered. 

On the way home in the car—Hutchins having remained, 
behind—Barham said, “I can’t see, Nick, that the police 
are making any headway whatever. I can’t see but Locke 



AT THE STUDIO 


149 


has them just where he wants them—if he wants them any¬ 
where.” 

“Where does he want them?” 

“Oh, I mean, he has things all his own way. Apparently, 
he means never to come back. There’s not a thing in the 
place of value—that’s what I noticed especially—there’s 
not a personal thing that he could possibly care for—oh, 
of course, there are his pictures—but I can’t imagine any 
one caring greatly for those.” 

“Mere sketches, they looked to me—and yet, I rather 
liked them. Good, soft coloring, and all that.” 

“All alike, weren’t they?” 

“Pretty much. Well, granting Locke is out of it, and 
his stuff there, as you say, of no value, then—don’t you 
see, the police are going to concentrate all their efforts on 
finding out something in Madeleine’s past life that will 
explain the murder.” 

Barham sighed deeply. “Of course they are. Of course 
I see it. And that’s where you come in. What can we do 
to stop them?” 

“I can’t think of anything. Your offer of money went 
nowhere.” 

“Nowhere at all. I suppose we can’t build up a man of 
straw for them to hang their suspicions on.” 

“And it isn’t that now, Drew. Just now, they’ve enough 
of that scandal about Madeleine to whet their appetites for 
more. They’re like a pack of vultures ; they want to get a 
lot of back history-” 

“Oh, I say, Nick! That might apply tc a newspaper, a 
yellow one—but not to the police!” 

“Well, to these detectives. They’re so eager to get a 
feather to stick in their cap, that they’d go any lengths 
to dig up horrid old gossip to help along!” 

“But, if the horrid old gossip chances to be the truth— 







150 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


as it is in this case, who can blame them? Lord knows I 
want to hush up the whole affair—but if it can’t be done, 
it can’t.” 

“Then you think it must all come out?” 

“Looks so. I can hush up the women—not one of that 
Bridge pack but would keep her mouth shut for a few 
hundred dollars. And they have an affection for Maddy, 
too. They hadn’t so much when she was alive, but now 
they’re tender toward her memory. It’s the police who 
will make the trouble—and the reporters—and worst of 
all, the exaggeration. If they’d tell the truth—that would 
be bad enough. But they’ll multiply everything by four 
and then double it.” 

“Yes, I suppose they will. Did you notice that picture 
of the girl—on the side table in the den ?” 

“No; what girl?” 

The one I told you about, with the queer name—Pearl 
Jane. She had bobbed hair—rather curly.” 

“No, I didn’t see any such picture.” 

“Oh, well, I think I set another picture over it, as I 
was digging about. That’s why. Wild goose chase, going 
down there at all. But I really thought we might turn up 
something.” 

“There’s no chance for clues, Nick, if that’s what you 
mean. Whoever killed Maddy was too clever to leave a 
clue. That much is evident to me.” 

“Yes, and to me, too,” said Nelson. 




CHAPTER XII 


CHINESE CHARLEY 

Chinese Charley was proving a puzzle to the police. 

As his wages were paid to the end of the month, his 
notion of duty kept him at his post until the expiration of 
that time. Then, he explained, he would go away and get 
another place—unless he had different orders from Mr. 
Locke in the meantime. 

“You are in touch with him, Charley!” Hutchins accused 
him. 

“Touch?” said the Chinese, blankly. 

“You hear from him. He writes you? Telephones 
you?” 

“No,” said Charley. 

But Hutchins believed he lied. 

Since the caretaker was there, however, Glenn continued 
to stay in the studio apartment day and night. This 
would continue until the end of the month; then, if Locke 
had not been heard from, the house agent said he should 
lock up the place until the paid-up rent had expired and 
then rent it to some one else. 

So matters seemed to be shaping themselves to a general 
permanent arrangement of forgetting Tommy Locke. 

Yet there was nothing else to do. Hunt was being made, 
search was being kept up, yet there was no sign of the 
missing man, except the vague reports of his telephoning 
his servant and friends. Nor could these be verified. 

Henry Post declared he had not heard from Locke. 

151 


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MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Kate Vallon said she had not, while little Miss Cutler 
refused to answer questions about it. 

Charley was equally taciturn, and Hutchins despaired 
of ever finding out anything. 

But the very day after Nelson and Andrew Barham had 
visited the studio, Charley, who was tidying up, suddenly 
gave an exclamation. 

“What’s doing?” ashed Glenn, who sat by, reading a 
paper. 

“Nothing, sir,” and the Oriental’s face was a blank. 

“You Chinese rascal, you’ve found something. Tell me 
what, or I’ll have the law on you!” 

“Nothing, sir.” 

And “nothing, sir,” was all Glenn could extract from 
the wily Charley. He watched him closely all day, but 
could get no inkling of the discovery he had made, if any. 

The only effect it seemed to have was to make the 
Chinaman do some searching on his own account. Several 
times through the day, Charley sneaked into the studio or 
den or the bedroom, choosing opportunities when Glenn 
was elsewhere, and swiftly pulled out drawers, opened cup¬ 
boards and rummaged in boxes. 

When Glenn came upon him, he immediately looked as 
innocent as a cherub, and pretended to be emptying an ash 
tray or picking up papers. 

“You’re a caution, Charley,” Glenn said. “I wish I 
could see into that carved ivory dome of yours.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the imperturbable one. 

That afternoon Charley dressed himself in street clothes 
and went forth on errands. Returning, he informed Glenn 
that he had been to pay the caterer’s bill and also the 
house agent’s rent. 

Glenn looked at him, astonished. 

“Where’d you get the money?” he asked. 



CHINESE CHARLEY 


153 


“Found in—in cubby drawer,” and Charley pointed to 
a certain pigeonhole in Locke’s desk. 

“What? How’d it get there?” 

“Misser Locke—he put.” 

Apparently the Chinese was greatly enjoying the other’s 
amazement. Though his yellow face was grave, the slant 
eyes were flickering with sly interest. 

“Mr. Locke put it there! Are you crazy?” 

“No clazy; no, sir.” 

“How do you know he put it there?” 

“Note say so. Note to Charley.” 

“A note to you? Come, now, this is too much. Have 
you seen Mr. Locke?” 

“No see Misser Locke, but get note. He put.” 

“He put! You— You’ll be put—in jail if you-” 

“Just for ’cause pay bill? Good bill?” 

“Let me see your note.” 

“All burn up.” 

“Look here, you. Do you mean you found money and a 
note there, that weren’t there before? That Mr. Locke 
has been here—and left money for you to pay his bills?” 

“Thass right. Money for me, for Caterman, for Agent 
man. Dassall.” 

“Well, next time he comes-” 

“He no come more. He good-by.” 

“Oh, he’s good-by, is he? Well, I think you’re making 
up this w r hole yarn. That’s what I think.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

But Glenn didn’t think so, he knew better. Though not 
for a moment did he believe the money or note had been 
found in that pigeonhole. He concluded Locke had gone 
to Charley’s home—the Chinaman went home nights—and 
Glenn was sure that Locke had been to see him, and by 
judicious payment had stopped his mouth from undesired 





154 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


disclosures. Anyway, Glenn decided, that was all he could 
make of it. 

He called up Hutchins but failed to get him, and he went 
to bed that night with one ear alert, hoping “Misser 
Locke” would pay another call. 

But his hopes were not fulfilled, and next day he told 
Hutchins of Charley’s story. 

“I know,” Hutchins said, staring at Glenn. “There’s 
something else doing, too. It seems Henry Post and that 
Miss Vallon have each had a letter from Locke. They were 
ready enough to tell of it, ready, too, to give us the letters. 
But, confound it, how has that chap the nerve to stay 
around here-” 

“A letter doesn’t mean he’s around here.” 

“No, nor does a telephone call. But if he put that 
money where Charley says he did, he must be in this 
vicinity.” 

“Oh, I don’t believe the Chink. Locke sent him that 
money by postal order or something like that-” 

“That’s neither here nor there, anyway. The point is, 
that apparently Locke has no intention of returning to 
this place at all. Now, if that is so, he’s staying away 
because he is guilty. If he were an innocent man, why 
wouldn’t he return and help straighten things out? I 
can’t see it any other way than that Locke did know Mrs. 
Barham, and did kill her. His very coolness and nerve in 
writing letters and telephoning and all that, proves the 
possibility, the probability of his being just the sort who 
would commit a murder, and then walk out the front door, 
saying, ‘Back in a minute.’ ” 

“That’s all so,” and Glenn tried to look wise. He was 
an humble underling, and he was secretly elated at being 
thus talked to by the great Hutchins. 

“Of course it is,” Hutchins went on. He was really only 





CHINESE CHARLEY 


155 


thinking aloud, and used Glenn merely as a target for his 
speech. “So I’m more than ever convinced that Locke is 
our man, and that his murder of Mrs. Barham was premed¬ 
itated and prearranged. Now, here’s that Yellow Streak 
again! What is it, Charley ?” 

“I talk you, alone, Misser Hutch.” 

“No, I don’t think you will. You’ll talk to me right here 
before Mr. Glenn. He’s my brother and my father and 
my grandmother.” 

“Yes, sir. Then, Misser Hutch, I ask you help me. 
I know things.” 

“Oho, you do! Well, Charley, if you know things, I’m 
the man to help you. And whatever you know, out with it. 
You may forget it.” 

“No, I no forget.” 

The Chinaman was serious now, and obviously deeply 
troubled. 

Hutchins winked at Glenn but said no word, fearing to 
disturb Charley’s thoughts—which, on the whole, promised 
to be interesting when divulged. 

“I have errand to do for Misser Locke,” he said at last. 
“I no can do—alone.” 

“All right,” Hutchins said, cheerfully, “I’ll help you. 
Do we start now?” 

But Charley looked graver still, and shook his head. 

“It’s to the lady,” he divulged. “The pretty little lady.” 

“Miss Cutler?” Hutchins guessed. 

“Yes, Missee Cutler.” 

“See here, Charley, is she Mr. Locke’s girl—you know— 
sweetheart ?” 

“I donno. But Misser Locke he want his—his jewel 
thing—his Luckee—and Missee Cutler—she got it.” 

The secret came out in a burst of confidence, and his tale 




156 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


told, Charley wilted. His waving arms fell limp, and his 
excited face returned to its normal stolidity. 

Hutchins held himself in, and strove to answer casually. 

“Oh, yes—that’s easy. Miss Cutler has Mr. Locke’s 
jewel—a lucky piece, you say? And Mr. Locke wants it. 
Of course he does. He’d have no luck without it. Well, 
let’s go and get it from Miss Cutler. Or did he give it to 
her? Is it hers now?” 

“No! Oh, no!” Charley fairly shuddered. “He not 
give it to her. She take it—Missee Cutler take it—from— 
from—dead lady!” 

Charley’s eyes now glowed with horror, even fright. 
But whatever the meaning of this strange story he was 
telling, he was certainly in earnest. There was no slyness 
now—no roguery. The man was deeply stirred by some 
emotion—some sense of duty. 

Hutchins’ own calm gave way. 

“Miss Cutler took it from the dead lady! From Mrs. 
Barham? What are you talking about?” 

“Go easy,” Glenn warned him. “He’ll shut up or bolt, 
if you’re not careful.” 

“Right, Glenn,” and Hutchins put a guard on his 
impatience. 

“When did she take it Charley ?” he asked. “When did 
Miss Cutler take the lucky piece from Mrs. Barham?” 

“After—after she dead—oh, oh!” His long, yellow 
hands flew up and covered his eyes. Clearly, he was 
envisioning a horrible memory. 

Hutchins’ mind worked like lightning. 

“Charley,” he said, “who killed the lady? Who killed 
Mrs. Barham? Did Mr. Locke do it?” 

But no answer came. The slant eyes seeemed to be of 
glass, so meaningless, so unalive they became. 



CHINESE CHARLEY 


157 


“If he knows, he won’t tell,” Glenn urged. “Get at it in 
a roundabout way.” 

The next day, Hutchins realized that he was taking 
advice from an humble inferior, but at this moment the 
suggestion seemed good to him, and he acted on it at 
once. 

“Yes, Charley,” he said ; “yes—about that lucky piece, 
now. Was it a jewel?” 

“Donno what you call. But like a flyaway. All same, 
dead lady had him in her hand.” 

“After she was dead?” 

“Yes, sir. Then I see Missee Cutler take him out of dead 
lady’s hand, and put him away, in her blouse. So.” 

Charley tucked his hand into his house jacket, with quite 
evident imitation of a woman concealing a treasure trove in 
her bodice. 

“Charley,” Hutchins looked at him sternly, “why are 
you telling this now? Is it true? If it is, why didn’t 
you tell at first?” 

Charley looked troubled. 

“I like Missee Cutler—but,” he sighed deeply, “I like 
my Misser Locke more. You make Missee Cutler give me 
lucky piece for my Misser Locke?” 

“I will, indeed—if she has it. You say you saw her take 
it—from—here, Charley, come into the den and show 
me.” 

Hutchins led the way and Charley obediently followed. 
Glenn, after them, wondering if they were on the verge of 
an important revelation or if the Chinaman had them “on 
a string.” 

“Now,” Hutchins said, watching Charley steadily, 
“Where was Mrs. Barham—the dead lady?” 

“Here,” and he indicated the spot where Madeleine had 
been found. 



158 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“And where was Miss Cutler ? How ?” 

“So,” and the Chinaman crouched over the place as one 
might who was intently examining an unconscious body. 
With his long yellow fingers, he made motions of extracting 
a small object from the hand—and so graphic was he that 
Glenn was horrified. 

“Missee Barrum here,” and Charley explained, as if he 
feared his dumb show was not intelligible; “Missee Cutler 
lean over—so—and pick Luckee from dead lady’s fingers.” 

“Where were you?” Hutchins asked, sternly. 

“Here,” and Charley rose and hurried to the little back 
hall. Then, standing just outside the partly open door, 
he peeped around it, as if spying on the scene he had just 
portrayed. 

“I can’t seem to think this is all made up,” Hutchins said 
to Glenn, in a breathless aside, “and yet it is incredible. 
Do you suppose Pearl Jane-” 

“Killed Mrs. Barham? I do not!” and Glenn looked 
positive* “But I believe this dumb show business. Charley 
never invented all that. . . . Moreover, Locke is after 
that lucky piece—or whatever it is—and Charley, who is 
all devotion to him, wants to get it for him.” 

“When you get it, Charley,” Hutchins said, “how will 
you get it to Mr. Locke?” 

But now the shrewd look returned. “I do,” was all the 
reply Hutchins could obtain. 

“I was pretty sure that girl was mixed up in the affair 
somehow,” Hutchins said, reflectively, as he looked at 
Glenn. 

“She could be mixed up in it and yet be entirely inno¬ 
cent of crime,” Glenn persisted, for his heart had been 
caught in the tangles of Pearl Jane’s bobbed hair. 

“She could. And if you feel that way about it, you’d 
better not go with me over to her place—which is where 





CHINESE CHARLEY 


159 


I’m going right now. You’d better not go, anyway, as I 
propose to take Charley, and if we leave this place 
unguarded, friend Locke may come in and camp here.” 

“No such luck,” returned Glenn, “I wish he would. But 
I’ve no desire to go and see or hear you bait that young 
woman.” 

“I know you haven’t. But, listen here, Glenn. That 
3 ? oung woman was found by me, crying, in that closet in 
that back hall there. She had a smear on her sleeve that 
looked to me like blood. When I went to see her a few 
hours later, she had washed the stain away—I saw the 
mark of it left. She said—or, rather Miss Vallon said, 
they had washed away a few drops of cocoa. Somebody 
else said, it might have been a red smear from a lipstick, 
every woman carries those nowadays. But I say, if that 
smear was lipstick or rouge or cocoa, why were they in 
such a hurry to eradicate it? Why did they notice it at 
all? Also, in that same cupboard was the monk’s robe, 
which Locke had tossed to Charley and which Charley had 
hung up there. That, too, had a smear of blood on it. 
Now, add the fact that Charley saw Miss Cutler bending 
over the body, that he saw her take something from the 
dead woman’s hand and conceal it in her bosom, add the 
fact—or, at least, my strong conviction that Miss Cutler 
has had one telephone message—if not two—from Locke, 
since his disappearance, and, perhaps romancing a little, 
remember that the girl was in love with Locke and may 
easily have been jealous of this strange woman—perhaps 
no stranger to her—oh, well, there’s enough, to my way of 
thinking, to get busy on.” 

Glenn had nothing in particular to reply to all this, and 
taking Charley with him, Hutchins started off to see Pearl 
Jane. 

But her little place was closed and locked. Nor was 



160 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Miss Vallon at home. The janitor said the two ladies had 
gone away together, and had left word they w'ould be back 
in two days. 

“If ever !” exclaimed Hutchins, when he heard this. He 
was angry, for he feared that, like Locke, the two women 
had gone for good and all. 

The janitor reassured him, however, saying the two fre¬ 
quently went off for a couple of days, and he was positive 
they would be back the next day but one. 

Hutchins had half a mind to get a warrant and search 
Pearl Jane’s rooms, but he wasn’t quite sure enough of the 
credibility of Charley’s story. 

At any rate, no one else knew of it, and if he could make 
the Chinaman keep quiet, and could pledge Glenn to 
secrecy, the matter could await the return of the two 
women. 

So he told Charley that if he said no word of it all to 
any one, that probably the lucky piece would be recovered. 
But if he told—there was no chance of it. 

This made the boy promise, and Hutchins believed he 
would keep his word. 

Glenn, too, agreed to be silent, and Hutchins turned his 
attention to the Barham side of the question for the next 
forty-eight hours. It was his plan to work from Locke 
to Mrs. Barham and back again, hoping to get some data 
on one side that w r ould dovetail with facts on the other. 

Glenn slept soundly that night. He was not a heavy 
sleeper, usually, but after any mental excitement, he felt 
exhausted, and glad of a good rest. 

Though on guard in the house, he was not required to 
stay awake at night, Dickson deeming it highly improbable 
that any intruder would put in an appearance. 

Nor had any one done so, to Glenn’s knowledge, though 
Charley’s story of finding money and a note in the desk 



CHINESE CHARLEY 


161 


looked like it. But Glenn doubted the details of the story 
and felt sure the Oriental had made up that part and had 
really received the messages by mail or in some such way, 
at his own place. 

And so, when, toward morning, Glenn heard a faint 
sound, which awoke him, he didn’t, at first, think it might 
mean anything of interest. 

He listened, however, but he heard nothing more. 

A moment later he saw or thought he saw a mere speck 
of light as if from a pocket flashlight held by some one in 
the den. 

Glenn was a good watchman, and his getting up out 
of bed was absolutely noiseless. So was his progress 
across the room and into the little back hall. From here 
he could see—even as Charley had seen—the spot where 
the dead body had been found. And there, bending over, 
as Pearl Jane might have bent over, was a dark figure— 
a man, searching on the floor. 

The tiny flashlight gave but a point of light, but by 
its single ray, the intruder was intently, eagerly looking 
for something. 

Awaiting his time, Glenn continued to watch. The man’s 
motions were so slow, his actions so deliberate, the police¬ 
man felt sure he could spring at him when he got ready, 
and still catch him unawares. 

The man’s back was toward Glenn, but he felt certain 
it was Locke. He could see dark hair, rather long, be¬ 
neath the soft, dark hat. He caught sight of a flowing 
tie—these things, he had been told, spelled Locke. 

Slowly, still, the man turned to the nearby table. This 
was getting pretty close to Glenn’s hiding place, and he 
concluded the time was ripe. 

The man reached for something on the table, and at 





162 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


the same movement Glenn burst in upon him, crying, 
“Hands up, Mr. Locke! Come quietly, now.” 

The man raised an astonished face, and at sight of 
Glenn, tousle-haired, wild-eyed, and clad only in pajamas, 
gave way to an irrepressible smile, exhibiting two gold 
eye-teeth and then, quickly snapping off his little flash¬ 
light, he sprang aside, and made for the studio door. 

But Glenn was too quick for him, and though it was 
pitch dark he was guided by the sounds, and the police¬ 
man slammed the door shut just before the other reached 
it. 

At bay, the intruder met Glenn in a hand to hand fight— 
by no means a desperate one, but both men were in earnest 
and the wrestling was steady and forceful. 

Glenn found his opponent was holding his own, and, in¬ 
cidentally edging nearer and nearer to the hall door, 
which, if he gained, would let him down the front stairs. 

This Glenn aimed to prevent, but, finally by a sudden 
push, the stranger sent the policeman flat against the 
wall, winded and off his balance. 

He recovered in a moment, but by that time the other 
had gone through the hall door, slammed it behind him, and 
could be heard running down the front stairs. 

As Glenn opened the door at the top of the stairs, he 
heard the street door flung open, and when, after the 
shortest possible interval he himself was down at the 
street door, and running down the steps, no one was in 
sight. 

Baffled, he looked one way and another, and just then 
Briggs came along on his beat. 

“What’s up?” he cried. 

“Locke! Chase him!” Glenn cried; “he just got away!” 

“Locke!” Briggs echoed. “Which way?” 

“I don’t know—he just ran out this door-” 




CHINESE CHARLEY 


163 


“He never did! I should have seen him. Where was 
he?” 

“In the house—upstairs—he fought me-” Glenn 

suddenly awoke to the fact that he was too unconven¬ 
tionally clad to appear on a front stoop, and made for 
the house door again. 

“Chase him, Briggs,” he urged. 

“Aw, chase yourself,” Briggs returned. “ ’Twas a 
nightmare you had. Go back to bed.” 

“No, it was no nightmare,” Glenn returned, “but I know 
what did happen. He fooled me! He slammed this door 
open—and then ran back through the hall and out that 
way. We’ve lost him!” 

“You poor fish !”said Briggs. 




CHAPTER XIII 


THE LUCKY PIECE 

When Hutchins heard of the nocturnal visit, he merely 
raised his eyebrows. 

“I told you he was a slick one,” he said to Glenn. “I 
don’t blame you, though—you did your best. But he 
had the advantage in knowing the ways of his own house, 
and being able to run around in the dark.” 

“Aw, I know this house well enough,” Glenn declared. 
“I haven’t lived here a week or more without knowing 
where the doors and halls run into each other, and all 
that. But it was his fighting that put me out of com¬ 
mission.” 

“Jiu-jitsu?” 

“Not a bit of it. But skillful, clever wrestling—like a 
professional. Why, I hadn’t a show. He didn’t hurt me 
a bit, but he just, well, he just sort of set me on one 
side. Then, as you say, he did know, even in the dark, 
just where he wanted to get to—and he got there.” 

“And fooled you beside.” 

“Yes, and fooled me beside. Of course, when I heard 
the front door slam open, I supposed he went out that 
way. And there, little cutie had swished the door open, 
w T ith a flourish of trumpets, and then he had whisked him¬ 
self through the house, and out at the good little old back 
door—so he had ! Had the nerve to leave that flying open 
behind him, too!” 

“Don’t worry, Glenn, if you had caught him you couldn’t 

have held him, and if you’d locked him in—he’d have got 

164 


THE LUCKY PIECE 


165 


out! I tell you he’s as bright as they come—if he is an 
artist.” 

“Well, what next? He’ll not come here again.” 

“How do you know? Did he get what he was after?” 

“What was he after?” 

“I don’t know. What did he get?” 

“I don’t know that he got anything. But I haven’t 
looked around at all. I was so sore—mentally, not 
physically—that I just went back to bed—and I’m only 
just through my breakfast now.” 

“Let’s give the place the once over. I don’t think there 
was anything of value for him to take—but he was after 
something and we may get a line on it.” 

“Why, of course, he was after his lucky piece—as 
Charley calls it.” 

“Yes—if it was Locke.” 

“If it was Locke? Who else in thunder could it be?” 

“Might be lots of people. Hello, what’s this?” 

The two had wandered through the studio, looking for 
any bit of evidence and finding none, and now they were 
in the Den. On the floor in a corner lay a strange looking 
object. 

Hutchins picked it up and held it out at arm’s length. 

“Well, I’m blowed!” he ejaculated, though he rarely 
gave w'ay to such elaborate expletive. 

But the occasion seemed to justify it, for the thing 
he held up to Glenn’s view was a wig of rather long, black 
hair. 

Glenn’s eyes grew big and round as he gazed. 

“That’s it!” he cried; “I grabbed him by the hair once, 
and it seemed to slide! Gave me the creeps! I’d for¬ 
gotten that. My heavens, Hutchins, what does it mean?” 

“It means,” the detective said, slowly, “well, it might 
mean something else, but I’ll say it means that your friend 




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of last night wasn’t Locke at all, but somebody rigged up 
to look like him.” 

“Yes—that must be it. An ordinary burglar, disguised 
as-” 

“No, by no means an ordinary burglar! Rather a most 
extraordinary one! One who was so bent on getting 
in here that he made up to look like a man for whom a 
reward is offered ! That’s going some!” 

“But it must have been Locke—for he came in with 
his own night key—that is, he must have done so, or how 
did he get in?” 

“Well, a chap smart enough to make up like Locke is 
smart enough to get a key somewhere or somehow. But, 
why? why? —that’s what I can’t understand. It can 
only be that there is some incriminating evidence still here 
regarding that murder. Nothing else would bring about 
such elaborate preparations.” 

“Mightn’t be elaborate. Just slapping a wig on your 
head isn’t such a great game.” 

“No; but this is just like Locke’s hair-” 

“How do you know—except by hearsay?” 

“That’s so, Glenn, I don’t. But all the descriptions of 
Locke sound like this thing looks.” 

“It was Locke, Hutchins, I saw his two gold teeth 
gleam. I’ve heard over and over again about those two 
gold teeth.” 

“So have I. Well, no burglar could carry disguise so 
far as that. It must have been Locke. I have it. He’s 
had his hair cut, to escape detection, and coming back 
here, he put on a wig to be different from what he really 
is now.” 

“Pretty good—but not good enough. I’ll tell you! It 
was that brother of Locke’s. He’d likely have gold teeth, 






THE LUCKY PIECE 


167 


too, such things run in families—and he impersonated his 
brother to get something here in the house.” 

“I never thought that brother person was really a 
brother,” Hutchins said, gloomily. Things were getting 
beyond his ken. 

“Where’s the girl’s picture?” Glenn cried, looking 
around. “Ha! It was Locke—he took the picture—the 
painting of the Cutler girl! That’s what he was after! 
Oh, these young lovers!” 

“Bah, I don’t believe it. It’s too foolish. What was 
it. A photograph?” 

“No; a little painting—pretty—almost like a minia¬ 
ture. I think Locke painted it himself-” 

“I think he didn’t. He paints landscapes-” 

“Some artists do both. Well, maybe he didn’t paint 
it—but it’s gone, and I’ll bet he took it. He stopped 
at that table—where it stood—the last thing before he 
left the room.” 

“Maybe he took it then—but it’s of small importance. 
The fact that Locke is in love with the little Cutler girl— 
or she with him—hasn’t much to do with our finding the 
murderer of Mrs. Barham. That’s what I’m after.” 

“Well, I think this wig business and this fellow that 
broke in last night are important matters. And I’ll bet old 
Dickson’ll think so too. Don’t pass it up, Hutchins— 
sleuth it out. If it was Locke why did he come, and-” 

“And if it wasn’t Locke, why didn’t he? But I’ll tell 
you what we’ll do. Put it up to Charley. See if he knows 
anything about it. Maybe Locke always wore a wig. 
Maybe he wanted to affect that long hair business and 

couldn’t do it on his own.” 

Charley came at their summons and gazed stolidly at 
the wig when asked to observe it. 

“Whose is it, Charley.” 








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“Donno.” 

“Is it Mr. Locke’s?” 

“Donno.” 

“Did Mr. Locke ever wear a wig? Come, you must know 
that ?” 

“Donno.” 

And even threats of jail, or intimations of worse 
punishment could not move the Chinaman to admit any 
knowledge of the wig or even the slightest interest in 
it. 

Nor did Dickson seem as much impressed as Glenn 
thought he would be. 

He opined it might have been some sneak thief, who 
had donned a wig merely to disguise his own appearance, 
or it might have been a curiosity seeker, of whom there 
were plenty about. He could see no explanation of Locke’s 
presence there, for if he wanted to come to his own 
house as secretly as all that, he would have disguised 
himself—not attempted to look like himself. 

But Glenn persuaded Hutchins to take the wig with him 
when he went to see Miss Cutler—for, he said, she could 
tell whether it’s reallv like Locke’s hair or not. 

“It’s a mighty fine wig,” Glenn went on, “and it was 
made in Paris—see, here’s the maker’s mark.” 

“That’s nothing,” Hutchins scoffed, “all good wigs 
are made in Paris. It’s a very expensive affair, too, which 
proves that it never was made merely to look like Locke 
on a midnight marauding expedition. That wig was made 
for a special customer, and for a special purpose. It 
has since fallen from such high estate, and is, most likely, 
the property of an artist’s model, who is posing as Hamlet 
or a Wandering Minstrel. By the way, like as not, it was 
worn here at the masquerade. Then when friend burglar 



THE LUCKY PIECE 


169 


started upstairs, he saw it, somewhere about, and clapped 
it on his head by way of disguise.” 

“Oh, you can make up fine-sounding gabble, but if 
you’d seen that chap, as I did, bending over that spot in 
the den—you’d know he was no burglar—he was Locke 
himself, or somebody who wanted to appear to be Locke.” 

“You said that before,” and Hutchins grinned at Glenn, 
as he registered extreme weariness. 

All the same, when Hutchins set out for his interview 
with Pearl Jane, he did carry the wig with him, and he did 
hope to learn something about it from the girl. 

She didn’t want to see the detective at all, but he had 
told her over the telephone that she must, and that she 
must see him alone. He gave her no choice in the matter 
and advised her to be at home when he called, which would 
be immediately. 

So he found her waiting for him, and, while she was calm, 
yet he could note an undercurrent of nervous excitement, 
and a frequent tremor of overwrought nerves. 

“Now, Miss Cutler,” he began, not at all unkindly, but 
decidedly, “I can’t help feeling you’ve not been entirely 
frank with me when w T e have talked together. This time, 
I hope you will be—for I may as well tell you that unless 
you are, you may be questioned by other people who will 
not be so patient with you as I am.” 

“What do you want to know?” and Pearl Jane struggled 
hard to preserve her composure. 

“First—what did you take from the hand of the—of 
Mrs. Barham, that night as she lay on the floor of the 
smoking room?” 

Pearl Jane grasped her throat to stifle a cry. 

“Now, don’t do that,” and Hutchins spoke a bit sharply. 
“Hysterics won’t get you anywhere. You’ve tried them 



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before. Don’t scream, or burst into tears, for if you do 
I shall only wait till you’re over it.” 

“Aren’t you perfectly horrid!” and the gray eyes 
flashed angrily at him. 

“Yes, I have to be—to keep you from being so! Go 
on, now, answer that question, so we can go on to the 
next.” 

“I didn’t take anything-” 

“Look here, my dear young lady, let me say from the 
start, falsehoods are barred. If you’re just going to tell 
stories, you can tell them to some one else. I’ve no time 
nor inclination for anything but the truth. I think I’d 
better take you over to the police station for a hearing.” 

“No, no—I’ll tell the truth. But—but skip that ques¬ 
tion—ask me the next one?” 

“This is the next,” and Hutchins looked grave. “Did 
you kill Mrs. Barham?” 

“No, no, no!” and again hysterics were imminent. 

But the face she raised to Hutchins was so imploring, 
and withal so appealingly sorrowful, that Hutchins was 
forced to modify his manner a little. 

“I don’t believe you did,” he said, heartily, after a deep 
look into her eyes, “now, have you any idea who did?” 

“That I refuse to answer,” and now the eyes flashed. 
“You can take me to the station or to prison or you can 
take me to the electric chair—but I shall never tell you 
if I suspect any one—any one at all!” 

She lay back in her chair rather exhausted at the vehe¬ 
mence of her own speech. 

She looked very young, she seemed very alone—but 
underneath her young helplessness there seemed to be a 
strong power of will that Hutchins began to see was 
unbreakable. 







THE LUCKY PIECE 


171 


“You care for him as much as that, then,” Hutchins 
said, his voice sinking to a whisper. 

“Yes,” said Pearl Jane, and her face glowed with a 
soft flush. 

Then realizing that she had been trapped, she flew at 
him like a young tigress. “How dare you? You think 
that is fair—right—to trap me*into an admission. Mr. 
Hutchins, you are more guilty of falsehood than I! You 
have no right to-” 

“There, there, Miss Cutler, yours is an open secret. 
You couldn’t keep it if you wanted to. Now, let me tell 
you, that it will be better for Mr. Locke in the long run, 
if you will be frank about him. Are you engaged to 
him ?” 

“No.” 

“Do you—or did you expect to be?” 

“Those are questions you’ve no right to ask.” 

“Very well, perhaps I haven’t. Now, Miss Cutler, do 
you know whose this is?” 

He flung off the paper, and held up the wig suddenly 
before her astonished eyes. 

She gazed at it as if hypnotized. She wasn’t scared— 
she seemed not to be over-curious, but she looked at the 
thing with a mild wonder, as a child at a curious novelty. 

“Where did it come from?” she asked, and gave a 
puzzled smile. 

“Of whom does it remind you?” 

“Of Mr. Locke. It is exactly like his hair.” 

“Do you think it is his hair? I mean, do you think he 
wears a wig, continually ?” 

“That’s what I’m wondering. I don’t know, I’m sure, 
but I do know that’s Tommy Locke’s hair, or just exactly 
like the hair I’ve always seen on his head. Oh, nonsense! 




172 


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No, I don’t believe he wears a wig habitually. Why should 
he? He’s a young man.” 

“How old?” 

“I don’t know exactly. We’ve judged him at twenty- 
eight or twenty-nine. That’s not old enough for a w T ig! 

“It is in the case of some people. Why do you smile?” 

“It’s so funny. If it is his—and if he hasn’t another, 
and has lost this—how queer he must look. Do you 
suppose he is bald?” 

Miss Cutler shook her own short, thick locks, and then 
she became serious again. “Where did you get it?” she 
asked. 

Hutchins told her the whole story, and asked her 
opinion. 

“No, it wasn’t Tommy,” she said; “it was some of the 
boys dressed up for a prank. It doesn’t seem funny to 
you, I daresay, but the boys do ever so many things that 
they think are funny, but no one else does.” 

“But this funny person took your picture—the little 
one in the den.” 

“That one! Why, that is one of Mr. Locke’s chief 
treasures. Jamieson painted that—how dare anybody 
steal it! Can you get it back?” 

“But perhaps it was Mr. Locke himself who took it. 
He would have a right to, you know.” 

“Yes,” and again she blushed that soft, pretty pink. 

“Where’s his lucky piece?” asked Hutchins, suddenly. 
It was his theory that these suddenly sprung queries 
brought results before the victim was aware of it. 

“What lucky piece?” 

“The one you took from Mrs. Barham’s hand.” 

He could see the effort she made—but this time it was 
successful. She conquered her emotion, she controlled 
her voice and she said calmly, “Mr. Hutchins, you spoke 




THE LUCKY PIECE 


173 


of that before. What makes you think I took anything 
from the dead woman?” 

“Y r ou were seen to do so.” 

“By that lying Chinaman! I refuse to answer if he is 
your informant.” 

“But he saw you—he was directly behind you. You 
leaned over and took the thing—and in so doing you 
touched your sleeve to her wounded forehead, thus making 
the smear which you afterward washed out.” 

“No, you are all wrong—I did none of those things.” 

“Then—then you won’t mind if I look about a bit for 
it? Y r ou see, if I look through your place and announce 
that I can’t find it—they won’t send somebody else to 
look—somebody with a warrant.” 

He hated to frighten the poor child, but it had to be 
done. He had learned the most effective w r ay to deal with 
her. 

“Look through my things !” she cried, staring at him. 

“Y"es; if you haven’t it—as you say you haven’t—you 
can have no objection—and truly, if I don’t, some one 
else will.” 

“Go ahead,” she said, and sat watching him. 

In a perfunctory fashion, Hutchins pulled open a few 
drawers of her writing desk and work table. He wasn’t 
really looking, he was watching her face hoping to learn 
from its expression what way to turn. 

Nor was he in error. She fell easily into his trap. 
With no thought of being studied, Pearl Jane did all he 
could hope for. When he was looking in some places, 
she drew a long breath of contentment and satisfaction. 
Again, her breath would come quickly, her eyes turn dark 
with apprehension and her tightly clasped hands tremble. 

So, he knew at last, that what he sought was—must be, 
in an upper drawer of an old secretary. He reached up 



174 


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for it, and as he saw the look of utter despair on her 
face, he pulled out the whole drawer, a small one, and 
lifted it down. 

But his find was not a “lucky piece”—instead it was 
something far more gruesome. For, wadded up in a cor¬ 
ner of the drawer was a long white kid glove—stained on 
the fingertips with a brownish tinge—unmistakably human 
blood. 

It did not need her breat-broken cry of dismay to tell 
him he had discovered her secret, and he came slowly 
toward her. 

“Miss Cutler—is this yours?” 

“No—oh, no.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure!” indignantly. 

“Then whose is it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Why is it here?” 

She braced up. Whatever the reason—perhaps sheer 
desperation—she sat up straight, drew herself together, 
and answered: 

“I found it on the floor near the body of Mrs. Barham.” 

“When you leaned over her?” 

“Yes; I did lean over to see if she were dead or alive. 
I was horribly frightened, but I thought it my duty 
to see that, at least.” 

“And she was dead?” 

“I think so. I tried to feel her heart, but I couldn’t— 
there was such an elaborate fringe and tinsel on the bodice. 
So, I—well, Mr. Hutchins, I think I rather lost my head. 
I had never seen a dead person before—like that, I mean— 

and I don’t know what I did. I grabbed the glove_” 

“Why?” 

I think I had a half formed fear that it might belong 





THE LUCKY PIECE 


175 


to some one I knew—that crime might be suspected-” 

“But it’s a woman’s glove-” 

“I know. But is a woman never guilty of crime?” 

“Murder?” 

“It has been known, hasn’t it? And isn’t the weapon 
that was used—a heavy weight, more the thing a woman 
would use? Can you imagine a man throwing that at a 
woman?” 

“Yes, more easily than I can imagine a woman doing 
it. You are romancing, Miss Cutler-” 

“I am not! I am telling you the truth. I was scared, 
even dazed at the awful situation, and I took the glove— 
brought it home and hid it—all because of that vague 
fear that it might implicate some one I care for—a dear 
friend-” 

“Miss Vallon?” 

“Yes, of course,” impatiently. “But I learned that she 
had her gloves—both of them—and then I thought no 
more about it. If that glove is of any importance, take 
it—I don’t know whose it is.” 

“I will take it. But don’t think I can’t read you! You 
are trying to turn the conversation away from the main 
theme—trying to turn suspicion away from the man you 
love. Away from Thomas Locke. You suspect him your¬ 
self—but you want to shield him. That is why you went 
to the dead woman. That is why you bent down over her 
—You thought you would remove incriminating evidence, 
if you could find any. You opened her hand—the dead 
woman’s hand, whether you found anything in it or not. 
What did you expect to find?” 

“Nothing,” Pearl Jane was sullen now. She kept her 
eyes down, her head turned away. 

But, during the conversation, Hutchins’s ever busy eyes 
had found something else. 







176 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Miss Cutler,” he said, this time very suddenly, “was 
it the scarab?” 

Her frightened stare told him he had guessed right. 

“What—what scarab?” she breathed. 

“Mr. Locke had a scarab—a lucky piece. Charley calls 
it a Flyaway! That’s what made me think of it—when I 
saw where you have hidden the thing. And a wonder¬ 
fully clever place! You are a marvel!” 

“I don’t know what you mean-” 

“Oh, yes, you do know what I mean. If you don’t— 
I’ll show vou.” 

Unfastening his cuff-link, and pushing back his sleeve, 
Hutchins thrust his arm into a globe of goldfish, and 
from among the little stones at the bottom, he brought up 
a stone scarab. 

“A valuable one,” he commented, looking at its Egyptian 
inscription. “And more valuable, I suppose, for its lucky 
powers. And the dead woman had this in her hand?” 

“Yes, she did,” said Pearl Jane, angrily, “make the 
most of it!” 

“I most certainly shall,” said Hutchins, gravely, and 
with the scarab and the stained glove both in his pos¬ 
session, he went away. 




CHAPTER XIV 


MARCIA SELDEN’s OPINIONS 

Dickson listened to Hutchins’s story with a very sober 
expression. 

“I may be wrong,” the Inspector said, finally, “but I 
certainly do believe that girl did it. For, on the face of 
it, Hutchins, what else is there to think? She is in love 
with Locke—that’s sure. I’m not so sure he is in love 
with her—and you know, ‘a woman scorned,’ is-” 

“Is the devil and all. But I can’t see that slip of a 
youngster killing anybody.” 

“It was done on a sudden impulse—that’s clear. No¬ 
body throws a heavy bronze weight premeditatedly. It 
looks like a woman’s deed to me. Of course, this presup¬ 
poses an acquaintance—probably more than that— 
between Mrs. Barham and the artist. But we have to sup¬ 
pose that—there’s no other assumption that allows for 
her coming there at all.” 

“She could have come out of the usual curiosity of the 
upper circles to see what the Bohemians do at their 
revels. That’s not an unknown proposition.” 

“I see you’re prejudiced in the girl’s favor. I can’t 
blame you for that. But we must look facts in the face. 
The visiting lady had in her hand the lucky piece which 
is evidently greatly prized by Locke. He even sent a 
note to Charley to find it for him. Now, we know that 
Mrs. Barham had it in her hand when she died. Maybe 
she was killed for it.” 

“Oh, that’s too fantastic!” 

177 





178 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Not at all. You don’t know what that thing may mean 
to these people. Haven’t you read stories about-” 

“Yes—I know. The Idol’s Eye—a great ruby or 
emerald stolen from a Persian god—but those things 
were real gems. This scarab is a curio-” 

“Scarabs—certain ones—are more valuable than any 
gems. However, that doesn’t matter—if it’s the super¬ 
stitious value of the thing—which I am sure it is. Now, 
say that Mrs. Barham w r as mixed up with Locke, say that 
Miss Cutler was jealous of her, say that Mrs. Barham 
did steal the scarab—isn’t it at least possible that the 
girl, unable to get it back, and frenzied by rage and love 
both, picked up the bronze and threw it almost involun¬ 
tarily, of course not meaning to kill her?” 

“It is possible, certainly,” Hutchins looked anxious, 
“but I wish we could find some other theory.” 

“I wish we could, too. But what else is there? Then 
you see, if the girl did it, and if Locke knows it, why, 
that’s the reason he has lit out. He’s afraid he’ll be 
questioned, and he’s shielding that girl.” 

“That makes Locke in love with the girl.” 

“Very likely he is. Perhaps the other woman was an 
old flame—well, I can’t explain all the turns and twists 
of an artist’s love affair—but I still think it was the girl 
who threw that book-end.” 

“People have no business to have such things around,” 
growled Hutchins. 

“Don’t be silly. In a moment of blind rage, any¬ 
thing handy becomes a weapon. Look how often a paper- 
cutter is used to stab, merely because it lies ready to 
hand. Let’s see the scarab, again.” 

With the air of a wise owl Dickson studied the ancient 
stone. 

“I don’t know much about these things in a scholarly 







MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS 


179 


way,” he frankly admitted, “but I do know this. If this 
thing is a real tip-topper among scarabs—and I think 
it is—a connoisseur would know all about it, and probably 
know this identical specimen. They’re all recorded—the 
famous ones.” 

Hutchins looked surprised at this erudition on Dick¬ 
son’s part. 

“Then we can trace it,” he said. 

“Yes—if it is a famous one. Take it up to the Metro¬ 
politan Museum, that’s the quickest and surest way to 
find out. Now, as to the glove—and there’s another sure¬ 
fire clue. Haven’t you an odd glove in your collection 
of trinkets found on or near the spot?” 

“Yes—and it seems to be a mate to this one. But that 
doesn’t prove anything.” 

“Not alone, but in connection with the fact that Miss 
Cutler hid this glove, and the other was found right where 
she was seen to be—well, it’s decidedly cumulative evidence! 
Now, what we want is some—even one connecting link— 
between the artist and Mrs. Barham. Until we get that— 
why, any other man at the party may have been the 
villain of this tale, instead of Locke.” 

“It was his scarab.” 

“Yes—that’s so—and doubtless the whole tragedy cen¬ 
ters around him. But, we must get a thread of con¬ 
nection, somehow. If you should go to Mr. Barham 
again—or to that Nelson—wouldn’t they tell you if they 
have run across anything?” 

“I should think so—but Mr. Barham is getting queer 
about it all. At first he was ready to move heaven and 
earth to learn how or why his wife came to go to that 
party. Also he offered the reward, you know, for Locke. 
Also, he was keen to find and punish the murderer. But 







180 


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now, he’s—well, sort of apathetic. Doesn’t seem to care 
what we do, so long as we don’t bother him.” 

“What does he do—with his time?” 

“I don’t know. Nothing especial, I guess. But he has 
taken up some of the more important matters of his 
business—he’s a big consulting engineer, you know. He 
canceled everything at first—but he’s picking them up 
again.” 

“That’s natural and to be expected. Doubtless they’re 
most important deals, and he really has to give them his 
attention. And why shouldn’t he?” 

“Why, indeed? Well, I’ll see him to-day, and Nelson, 
and I hope to goodness they’ll have something to tell me 
that will turn you off the track of that poor girl.” 

“I hope so, Hutch, but don’t let your sympathy for 
Beauty in distress blind your eyes to facts and evidence.” 

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Hutchins went 
off, hoping against hope that he could clear Pearl Jane. 
It was too absurd to suspect that pretty little thing— 
but, as Dickson had put it, there was a chance that she 
had lost her temper, and had thrown the missile—women 
Tvere uncertain at best. 

And Hutchins had to admit to himself that Pearl Jane 
was exceedingly uncertain. He had seen her gentle, pathe¬ 
tic, sweet—and then sullen and obstinate—all in the same 
five minutes. Yes, hers was a peculiar personality. 

After due deliberation he concluded to go to see Andrew 
Barham before he saw Nelson. He didn’t know himself 
just why he made this decision, but it was really due 
to a lurking hope that it would turn out better for the 
girl that way. 

By telephoning, he learned that Barham was not at his 
office that da}^, but at his home. This was by no means 





MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS 


181 


unusual, and Hutchins started off for the Fifth Avenue 
house. 

He was admitted and ushered into a sort of family 
living-room, where, to his surprise he found Mrs. Selden 
as well as her son-in-law. 

“I asked to have you brought here, Mr. Hutchins,” the 
lady said, looking at him with a condescending interest, as 
if he were some necessary but unattractive piece of furni¬ 
ture. “I desire a few words with you myself.” 

She paused, perhaps expecting some burst of delighted 
surprise at this honor, but Hutchins merely made a slight 
bow of acquiescence. 

“What have you done toward the finding of my daugh¬ 
ter’s murderer?” she asked, and her commanding air 
seemed to imply that she expected a full and satisfactory 
report of the police proceedings. 

Mrs. Selden sat bolt upright, in a high-backed chair. 
Her gown was most fashionably made, though of the deep¬ 
est mourning that could be devised. The hem of heavy 
crape reached nearly to her waist line, and the crape 
bodice had such a high neck and such long sleeves, that 
none of her throat and only her finger-tips could be 
seen. Her white hair showed large ornamental hairpins 
of black dull jet, and her handkerchief was as deeply 
black bordered as it is possible for a handkerchief to 
be. 

Very aristocratic and very imposing was her appearance 
and manner, but Hutchins was by no means overcome 
with awe at her grandeur. 

“We have done all that we found to do, Madam,” the 
detective returned, speaking respectfully, but by no means 
humbly. “Rest assured, the work is going on—but so 
far, the evidence is slender and the clues are few.” 

“I am quite sure it is your fault if that is so,” Mrs. 



182 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Selden spoke raspingly, “I doubt very much if your board 
or company or whatever is it, has put on sufficient men or 
sufficiently skillful men.” 

“Mother,” Barham remonstrated, “Mr. Hutchins is him¬ 
self the principal detective on the case, and his record is 
a fine one-” 

“Will you hush, Andrew! I do wish I might be per¬ 
mitted to say half a dozen words without interruption! 
I know you want to do the talking yourself, but let me 
remind you that Madeleine was my daughter, as well as 
your wife. And, I may add that I am far more deeply 
concerned and anxious about the discovery of her mur¬ 
derer than you appear to be. Mr. Hutchins, have you 
questioned everybody that was at that infamous revel?” 

“If you refer to Mr. Locke’s studio party, yes, Madam, 
they have all been questioned.” 

“And you made no arrest?” 

“No information was received from the guests that 
warranted any arrest.” 

“Ah, you couldn’t have questioned very closely—or very 
intelligently. For it is impossible that my daughter should 
have gone there without knowing some one—somebody 
who was present.” 

“That seemed to be the case. Wherefore, we assumed 
that }^our daughter must have been acquainted with Mr. 
Locke himself.” 

“With Mr. Locke! My daughter know a common artist! 
Never! She might have gone there to see about having 
her portrait painted-” 

“Mr. Locke is not a portrait painter.” 

“Perhaps some other painter was there who does do 
portraits of society ladies.” 

“I can think of none such,” and Hutchins hastily sized 





MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS 


183 


up this new idea in his mind. But it seemed to promise 
nothing. 

“She would scarcely attend a party where she knew no 
one, merely to make arrangements for a portrait,” he said, 
as if thinking aloud. 

“Do not presume to say what my daughter would or 
would not do, sir. That is outside your province. Remain 
within your own rightful boundaries of thought and 
speech.” 

Hutchins looked at her. He had never been treated 
quite like this before. And, apparently, Andrew Barham 
didn’t dare call his soul his own, even in his own home. 

But Barham was by no means afraid of his mother-in- 
law. His hesitancy to rouse her temper was partly because 
he so hated the scenes she made and partly because he 
really felt a tenderness for the mother of his wife. 

Still, he couldn’t quite allow this. So he said: 

“Please, Mother, try to remember that Mr. Hutchins 
represents the dignity of the law, and so, even aside from 
his own merits, commands our respect and courtesy.” 

Marcia Selden took him up. 

“Andrew!” she exclaimed, “will you never cease scolding 
me? You omit no chance to reprimand me, to hold me up 
to the scorn of others. Shouldn’t you think, Mr. Hutchins, 
that a man would be a little kindly inclined to one who 
is the mother of his wife? But, no, all Mr. Barham ever 
says to me is by way of fault finding and reproach!” 

The black handkerchief was pressed against the tear¬ 
ful eyes, and Hutchins, not feeling privileged to side with 
either, said nothing. 

Barham repressed an angry impulse, and said, with a 
kind but long-suffering air: 

“Not quite that, Mother. I never forget our relation¬ 
ship-” 




184 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“But you’d like to forget it! You’d like to sever it! 
You wish I’d go away and live by myself.” 

“I don’t admit that—but let’s not discuss it now. Mr. 
Hutchins is here on business, I think. Perhaps you will 
leave us alone for a little-” 

“That I won’t! And have you cook up some scheme 
by which the crime will be glossed over and forgotten, and 
the mystery of Maddy’s death will never be solved.” 

Hutchins broke in then with a definite determination. 

“Mrs. Selden,” he said, “if you will let me, I will give 
you an idea of what the police have done and are doing.” 

“Are there any new developments?” Barham asked. 

“There are,” Hutchins replied. And then, seeing no 
reason Mrs. Selden shouldn’t know the details as well as 
Barham himself, Hutchins told the whole story of the 
scarab. 

He told of the mysterious note Charley had received, 
asking him to find the “lucky piece.” He told of Charley’s 
futile search, and subsequent call on the detective for 
help. He told of Charley’s description of seeing Pearl 
Jane bending over Mrs. Barham and taking something 
from her hand. 

Andrew Barham listened with an inscrutable face and 
immovable countenance. He sat with folded arms, his 
eyes intently fixed on Hutchins’s face. 

Mrs. Selden, on the contrary, was nervous and excited. 
She said little, for, when she interrupted, Hutchins per¬ 
emptorily bade her be silent. 

Also, she, too, was deeply interested. She twisted her 
handkerchief until it was a mere wisp, she picked at her 
gown, and she now and then broke into weeping. 

But Barham didn’t look at her. He sat listening to 
Hutchins, saying no word, but seeming like a man in a 
trance. 




MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS 


185 


Hutchins went on with the tale, and came to the scene 
at the home of Miss Cutler. He told of finding the scarab 
in the goldfish bowl, where she had so cleverly hidden 
it. 

“Have you the scarab ?” Barham asked, speaking for the 
first time during the recital. “Is it really valuable?” 

“You know scarabs, Drew,” Mrs. Selden said, “you 
brought some home from Egypt, didn’t you?” 

“Yes; Mother; but I’m not a real connoisseur. Mine 
are good specimens—but not by any means famous ones. 
Is Locke’s, Mr. Hutchins?” 

“I don’t know. I’m going to take it to the Museum, and 
have it sized up. Want to see it? I doubt if it’s what you 
call famous.” 

He took the stone beetle from his pocket and handed it 
over. 

Andrew Barham examined it with interest; first cour¬ 
teously offering it for Mrs. Selden’s inspection. But she 
merely glanced at it, saying, “It looks like all the others 
to me.” 

“I don’t think it is a Ring’s scarab,” Barham observed 
as he examined the thing; “I’ll just take it to my library 
a minute, while I look it up in a book I have.” 

He was gone but a moment, and returned saying, “As 
I thought—it is a good one, but not a royal scarab. 
Doubtless, as you intimated, the value to Locke lay in its 
associations—or perhaps a superstition—rather than in 
its money value.” 

He gave one more glance at the stone he held and then 
handed it back to Hutchins, who wrapped it in its bit of 
paper and returned it to his pocket. 

Then Hutchins told them about the stained glove he 
had found hidden in Miss Cutler’s room, and at last his 
hearers began to realize that the detective was leading up 



186 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


to the announcement that the police suspected the girl of 
the murder. He had told the story slowly, for he wanted 
to catch, if possible, any facial expression or any involun¬ 
tary exclamation that v T ould hint at a knowledge on the 
part of husband or mother regarding Madeleine Barham’s 
acquaintance with Locke. 

But he could get nothing of the sort, and, though his 
quick eyes and ears w r ere eagerly waiting, there w 7 as posi¬ 
tively nothing to be learned from Barham’s stony calm, 
or from Mrs. Selden’s nervous agitation. 

And so, at the end of his recital, he merely asked Barham 
his opinion as to the possible guilt of Miss Cutler. 

“Of course she did it!” cried Mrs. Selden, not giving 
Barham a chance to reply. “Could anything be clearer? 
I don’t know why you haven’t arrested her already! It’s 
so palpably true—she was jealous-” 

“Don’t go so fast. Mother,” Barham said quietly. 
“How could this unknown girl be jealous of our Maddy? 
You’re not imagining, are you, that Maddy had a vulgar 
intrigue with some artist? I can’t imagine any such case 
as that—if you can!” 

Marcia Selden was silenced for once. She could easily 
imagine the girl’s jealous3 r , but she, too, was at a loss 
to apply that jealousy to her Madeleine. 

“Nothing can ever make me believe that my wife knew 
these people socially,” Barham declared. “I cannot under¬ 
stand her presence there at all, but whatever her errand 
down there was, it was something other than social. Don’t 
ask me to explain her elaborate costume—quite evidently 
prepared for the occasion. I don’t know anything about 
that. Maybe it was mere idle curiosity of a societ}' woman 
to see a bit of studio life. But it is impossible that Mrs. 
Barham was there as a social guest.” 

His arms were still folded across his chest, his gaze 





MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS 


187 


was still cold and direct, and Hutchins saw at once that, 
whatever the truth of the matter might be, Andrew Barham 
believed implicitly in the statements he made. 

“That is true,” Marcia Selden agreed. “I think, 
Andrew, } t ou might exert yourself a little more to learn 
what took Maddy there. But I must agree with you”— 
she seemed to hate to do so—“that my daughter never went 
there as a guest. I mean as one of the social circle there. 
She had a later engagement at the home of a friend, so, 
you see, she merely stopped at the studio place, en route . 
Either it was to see about a portrait, or to satisfy a bit 
of curiosity—or both.” 

“Could it have been in any way connected with Mrs. 
Barham’s—er— Bridge habits-” 

Alarmed lest Hutchins tell something disparaging to 
Maddy, which he hoped to keep from the knowledge of 
Mrs. Selden, Barham rose suddenly, and said: 

“That reminds me, Mr. Hutchins, I have an important 
engagement. If Mrs. Selden will excuse us, will you walk 
along with me—toward my destination?” 

The detective agreed, and once outside the door, Barham 
told him of the ruse. 

“You know much concerning my wife’s Bridge debts,” 
Barham said, “and, if necessary, it will have to be made 
public. But unless it is—or, until it is, I want to keep 
it from Mrs. Selden. It would distress her beyond 
measure.” 

Hutchins marveled at the character of a man who would 
be so careful of the sensibilities of a woman who so 
trampled on his own; but he only said: 

“I can’t see now, Mr. Barham, the slightest connection 
between Mrs. Barham’s Bridge cronies and the tragedy of 
the studio. Unless such comes to light, her Bridge affairs 
need never reach the ears of the public.” 






188 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Their ways diverged then, Hutchins going to the 
Museum to inquire about the value of the scarab. 

The authorities there told him practically the same as 
Barham had said. It was a genuine antique scarab—and 
was worth perhaps a hundred dollars. But it was by 
no means a museum piece or an especially fine specimen of 
its period. 

So, Hutchins concluded, Locke valued it mostly for 
some sentiment or association. This, however, had no 
bearing on its value as evidence against Pearl Jane Cutler. 

That young woman put in a pretty miserable day. She 
knew not whether she would be accused of murder—or 
being an accessory after the fact—whatever that meant! 
or what would happen to her. She confabbed with Kate 
Vallon, and then she went to Henry Post for advice and 
counsel. 

They could say little, except to express sympathy and 
indignation at the suspicion cast on her. 

“You didn’t do it, P. J., did you?” Post asked. 

“No,” she said, dully—“but if I had, I should say I 
hadn’t.” 

These artists seemed not to have very deep susceptibili¬ 
ties. Both Post and Rodman Jarvis, though good pals 
of Locke’s, had practically no help to offer Pearl Jane. 
In their circle, every man was for himself—and every 
woman also. They were not hard-hearted—they were 
merely cold-blooded and absorbed in their own affairs. 

“They’ll never arrest the kid,” Post said to Jarvis. 
“Why worry? And, for all I know, there may have been 
some affair between Locke and the Barham woman. I 
keep out of such messes all I can.” 

And Jarvis, though ready to do all he could for Locke 
in his absence, had no wish to take up Pearl Jane’s burdens. 

Kate Vallon was devoted to the girl, and she wept with 



MARCIA SELDEN’S OPINIONS 


189 


her and gave sound and really good advice, which included, 
among other things, a sudden and secret disappearance. 

“It’s the only thing,” Kate said; “that’s what Tommy 
did, and you must go. I’ll help you off, and I know just 
the place for you to go.” 

Rut Pearl Jane doggedly refused to do this. No reason 
would she give, and Kate retired in dudgeon. 

Left to herself, Pearl Jane moped and worried, and at 
last, about ten o’clock, she began to think of going to 
bed. 

And then her telephone bell rang. 

“Hello,” she said, listlessly, and an answering voice said 
“Hello.” 

Like a wave of revivifying joy, the sound went to her 
heart, and softly, as if half afraid, she breathed— 
“Tommy!” 



CHAPTER XV 


A TELEPHONED WOOING 

“Yes, little girl—it’s Tommy. Are you alone ?” 

“Yes—where are you?” 

“Never mind—it’s all right. Now, listen, child—is that 
story true, about your taking the scarab from—from her 
hand ?” 

“Yes, Tommy.” 

“Why did you do it?” 

“It was yours and you cared a lot for it. She had no 
right to it—had she?” 

“Well—no. But I fear it’s going to get you into 
trouble.” 

“Yes—I am in trouble. They say I killed her.” 

“Did you?” 

“Oh, Tommy! Don’t! How can you say such a thing?” 

“Look here, dear, before we go any further—do you 
think I killed her?” 

“Oh—I don’t know-” 

“Do you think so?” 

“I did think so. I saw you run away—and-” 

“That’s enough. Then, at least, that proves you didn’t 
do it!” 

“Why, I just told you I didn’t.” 

“Oh, yes, so you did-” 

“How queer you are, Tommy. Aren’t you ever coming 
back ?” 

“No—I think not.” 

“Oh-” 


190 







A TELEPHONED WOOING 


191 


“Do you care? Pearl Jane, would you care if you 
never saw me again?” 

“Yes—I’d care! But you wouldn’t!” 

“Oh, wouldn’t I! Well—but, dear, the whole thing is 
such a mess. I wish I could see you-” 

“Well, why can’t you? Oh, Tommy, tell me something! 
Are you bald?” 

“Bald! Lord, no! What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you wear a wig?” 

“I do not! Oh, you dear little girl, the sound of your 
voice makes me long to see you—I never knew before how 
much I cared-” 

“You didn’t care—the night of—of the masquerade.” 

“I did—oh, Pearl Jane, I did—but—I didn’t know 
it.” 

“And I don’t know it now. I think you’re cruel to tan¬ 
talize me like this—and I’m going to hang up.” 

“No, don’t—oh, wait a minute. What shall I do? Look 
here, Pearl Jane, I don’t know when I can telephone again. 
Perhaps I can manage it all right—but if these detectives 
take to watching your wire-” 

“Good-by, Tommy.” 

“Same little saucy thing—aren’t you. Pearl Jane— 
listen—dear. If I tell you I love you—can you trust me 
for all else?” 

“Yes! yes!” joyfully. 

“You w r on’t lose faith in me—whatever happens?” 

“No—no I won’t.” 

“Then just trust me—dear. I can’t explain now—it 
may be a long time—are you sure you can trust me if you 
don’t hear anything-” 

“Forever—if need be.” 

“You darling! Now about the scarab business. Will 
you do as I advise you?” 











192 


/ 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Of course.” 

“Then—then, dear, tell the exact truth—to everybody 
and in every particular. If you suspect I killed the lady, 
and if you are asked, say so. If the gloves are yours, say 
so. If you know anything about the scarab, tell it. Tell 
everything, but always tell it the same. This will be 
easy, if you tell the truth every time.” 

“But—Tommy, they will arrest me-” 

“No, they won’t. Don’t be afraid of that. Shall I tell 
you why they are suspecting—or pretending to suspect 
you?” 

“Why?” 

“They don’t really think you are guilty, dear, but they 
think that by accusing you—they can get hold of me. 
They know I love you—I believe they knew it before I 
knew it myself!” 

“Didn’t you know it the night of the party?” 

“No! Hadn’t an idea of such a thing! It’s come on 

suddenlv—and I’ve a bad attack!” 

* 

“Oh, Tommy—I want you !” 

“Hush, dear—don’t talk like that—I can’t stand it. 
Pearl Jane, there’s much more to this whole dreadful busi¬ 
ness than you can imagine. Or than anyone else imagines. 
So, keep up a good heart, and—what did you promise to 
do?” 

“Trust you, Tommy.” 

“And do you?” 

“Yes—until I see you—and after that—forever.” 

“Sweetheart! Good-bv.” 

%/ 

The voice ceased—and, in a sort of daze, Pearl Jane 
hung up her receiver. 

What did it all mean? Where was Tommy? Why 
couldn’t he come to her? Unless—no, she knew—she knew 
he was not guilty. Her Tommy guilty? 




A TELEPHONED WOOING 


193 


And then all thought of guilt or trouble was lost and for¬ 
gotten in the blissful realization that he was her Tommy! 

Was ever woman in this fashion wooed? 

She wondered if any other girl in the world had ever 
had a proposal over the telephone. Doubtless such a 
thing had happened, but not like hers! She was sure 
that her experience was unique—and, at any rate, it made 
her very happy. Now, she must plan her life. 

She must not be afraid of the police—Tommy had said 
so. She must stay right there in these same rooms— 
Tommy might telephone again. 

But wdiether he did or didn’t, whether she heard from 
him again in a week or not for a year—she would always 
trust him. 

For—he loved her! He had told her so. Oh—when she 
should see him—she’d take a sweet revenge for all this 
mystery! 

And she was to tell the truth. This was a real relief, for 
Pearl Jane was not a very successful liar, and she was 
apt to forget and get her stories mixed up. But here¬ 
after—Tommy said—she was to tell the truth—and she 
was not to fear. 

Must she tell of this conversation with him? 

That was a problem. But she fell asleep on the decision 
that she would tell the truth if asked—but if not, she 
had no intention of sharing her beautiful heart-secret 
with anybody just yet. 

It was the next day that a man came to Andrew 
Barham’s house with a request that he might have an 
interview, if only a few moments. 

Barham received him in his little library, curious to 
know if any news regarding the mystery might be forth¬ 
coming. 




194 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“My name is Locke,” the caller said. “I’m the brother 
of the artist who has disappeared.” 

“That’s very interesting,” Barham said, non-com¬ 
mittally; “what can I do for you?” 

“You can do this, Mr. Barham. You can use your in¬ 
fluence to get the authorities to turn over to me any 
belongings or estate my brother had. I’m his only heir— 
but Tom lived so much to himself, and so quiet-like, I’ve 
no letters or such, to prove my claim. Now, if an in¬ 
fluential man like yourself, sir, would just say a word to 
the police, they’d give me poor Tom’s clothes and furni¬ 
ture and suchlike. I don’t want anything they’d be likely 
to need for evidence—but I’m a poor man, sir, and I could 
do with a bit more. Especially when it belonged to my 
own brother.” 

“So you’re Locke’s brother.” Barham looked at him 
appraisingly. “Are you older than he?” 

“Only a year or so older. We were boys together.” 

“Ah, yes, of course. Now, where did you live, as 
boys ?” 

“In Kansas City.” 

“And your father’s name was?” 

“John—John Locke. He was a minister, sir.” 

“Oh, he was? Well, Mr. Locke, one more question. 
What was your mother’s maiden name?” 

“Hester—Hester Miller.” 

“A Kansas City woman?” 

“Yes sir.” The caller began to fidget a little under this 
direct catechism, and Andrew Barham smiled. 

Then he said, “I think there’s some mistake, Mr.—er— 
Locke. Your brother cannot be the artist we are interested 
in. You see, the artist, Tommy Locke, was born in 
Massachusetts. His mother’s maiden name was Jeannette 
Fessenden, and his father was a fire-insurance agent. So 




A TELEPHONED WOOING 


195 


I will ask you to excuse me, and bid you a very good- 
day.” 

Barham turned back to his desk and took up his 
pen. 

“But, sir—” the man began, “won’t you please-” 

Barham turned back and looked at him. “I said good- 
day,” he reminded him, and with his penhandle, he pointed 
toward the door. 

The man departed, and strange to say was never heard 
of again by Barham or the police either. 

“Good game—but it didn’t work,” Andrew Barham ad¬ 
vised himself. 

Nick Nelson came in later. 

“I’ve been trying to find that brother of Locke’s,” he 
said, “I thought I might get a line on the artist through 
him. 

Barham laughed, the first time Nick had seen him 
laugh since the tragedy. 

“You’ll probably never see him again,” he said, and 
then he related the incident as it happened. 

“Why were you so sure he was an impostor?” Nelson 
asked. 

“Oh, he had all the earmarks of the professional vul¬ 
ture. They run around to find people who die or disap¬ 
pear without relatives, and then they try to claim the 
property. Sometimes they get away with it, and some¬ 
times they don’t.” 

“What did you tell him all those other names for? Did 
you make them up?” 

“Of course. I did it to prove myself right. If he had 
been Locke’s brother, don’t you suppose he would have 
insisted on his own genealogy ? He made up his ancestors’ 
names, so I had an equal right to make up another set for 
the missing man.” 





196 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“The police cottoned to him, because he had some gold 
teeth—and so has Tommy Locke,” said Nick. 

“Absurd. We aren’t born with gold teeth in our mouths 
—I suppose heredity might make two brothers lose the 
same teeth—but, well if the police need him in their busi¬ 
ness, I’m sorry I sent him off.” 

“No; I fancy they owe you a debt of gratitude. An¬ 
other queer thing has turned up. You know that scarab?” 

“Yes—I have seen it. Nothing very valuable.” 

“No; so I’m told. But the little girl says it has been 
changed.” 

“Changed—what do you mean?” 

“She says the scarab Locke owned was a Royal scarab 
—from a King’s tomb. And, the one Hutchins has now, 
the girl says, is quite another stone.” 

“Does the girl know about such things?” 

“I don’t think she is a connoisseur at all, but she prob¬ 
ably knows what Locke told her.” 

“Ah, yes—what Locke told her. But, Nick, isn’t it 
conceivable that Locke described his treasure as being 
of a higher value than it really was? Can’t you see 
him, desiring to impress his artist friends, claiming a royal 
history for a scarab that was merely a poor commoner?” 

“That’s easy, too. But the girl declares she knows that 
the one Hutchins has now—is not the one she gave him.” 

“That girl seems bound to make trouble. What’s she 
like, Nick?” 

“Lord, Andrew, I’ve described her to you half a dozen 
times. Like an Art Student—of course. Big eyes, bobbed 
hair, little turn-up nose, and a skin like a satin rose- 
leaf-” 

“Hold hard, Nick, you sound like an interested 
observer!” 




A TELEPHONED WOOING 


197 


“No; I’m telling you the truth. You don’t see that sort 
of skin among our sort of women.” 

“Could be, if they didn’t overdo the rouge pots.” 

“No, it’s different. Healthier. Well, as for the rest, 
she’s a little thing—and she dresses in that studio style, 
but she gets away with it. And—she’s nobody’s fool.” 

“Just what do you mean by that?” 

“I mean she’s sensible and straightforward—though I 
believe if you’d know her well, she’s full of the devil— 
capers, I mean. She has a jolly little gleam in her eye-” 

“Well, considering you saw her only once, at the In¬ 
quest, you took her in rather completely.” 

“Do quit fumbling in that desk drawer, Drew! What 
is the matter with you? Are you hunting for a letter or 
something?” 

“No,” and Barham let go the papers, and pushed the 
drawer shut. “Go on, Nick. You’re here for something 
special. Out with it.” 

“All right—out it is. The truth is, Drew, Hutchins 
thinks you exchanged those scarabs. He thinks when you 
took Locke’s into the other room to look it up in your 
book, that you substituted a less valuable stone.” 

“Oh, he does, does he? Well, old chap, what do you 
think? Am I given to petty thievery? Would I be likely 
to steal a scarab from a poor artist—or from the police?” 

“Of course not, Drew, don’t be silly. But I thought 
maybe you could help trace it. I think that somehow 
Locke has managed to get it back and he has made the 
substitution.” 

“You’re sure there was a substitution?” 

“It looks that way. The girl described minutely the 
design on Locke’s scarab—she says he did consider it his 
lucky piece—and the figures on the one Hutchins has now 
are quite dissimilar.” 





198 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“My dear Nick, no one who hasn’t studied scarabs can 
tell one from another—least of all, a little bob-haired 
girl with a turn-up nose. Why not suspect the Chinaman. 
He had the job of finding the thing, I’m told. Say he 
found it, and—those Orientals are tricky, and they know 
about curios—say he made the substitution. How’s 
that ?” 

“I don’t think he has seen it?” 

“But you don’t know that he hasn’t.” 

“No. Oh, well, I dare say it’s the same old scarab. 
Also I guess they’ll arrest the little girl soon, and then 
there’ll be a sensation. Somehow I hate to see her ar¬ 
rested. A mere child-” 

“How can they arrest her? They’ve no real evidence.” 

“They hold that they have. The Chinaman saw her 
bending over the body. He saw her take the scarab, 
which afterward was found hidden in her room. Also, the 
pair of stained gloves are her size. Also the bronze book- 
end has been photographed for finger prints—and it shows 
the prints of Miss Cutler’s fingers.” 

“I don’t believe it!” Andrew Barham sat up straight, 
and spoke so strongly that Nelson looked at him curiously. 

“Why, Drew, what’s the great excitement?” 

“Only that I’m a champion of women—all women, as 
you know. And I think it’s outrageous to arrest that 
girl—almost a child, you tell me—for a crime of that 
sort!” 

“Don’t say ‘of that sort’ for it’s just the sort of 
weapon a woman would use.” 

“But why, why would that girl kill Maddy? Why— 
answer me that!” 

“Good Lord, I can’t answer that! If I could, I’d have 
the whole problem solved. Will you stop fumbling in that 






A TELEPHONED WOOING 


199 


drawer? If you’ve lost a paper, hunt for it—do. But 
quit poking aimlessly about among the old documents.” 

Again Barham slammed the drawer shut. 

“There’s no reason why that girl could possibly have 
killed Madeleine, unless it was jealousy. Now, I hold she 
couldn’t have been jealous of my wife, for my wife had no 
knowledge of those people at all—she had no acquaintance 
down there.” 

“To your knowledge.” 

“To my knowledge, or outside it. I didn’t live with 
Madeleine all those years without knowing her whole mind 
—and she would never have chummed with those people— 
never!” 

“Maybe she went down there with some of our own 
crowd—curiosity, you know. Maybe we can find out 
who went with her. Have you tried?” 

“I’ve asked a few of the women—but they won’t tell— 
if they know, which I doubt.” 

“Claudine would know.” 

“I’ve asked her, but she gave me no real information.” 

“Get her down here—now. I’ve a ghost of an idea that 
she knows more than she has told.” 

The maid was sent for, and appeared, looking a little 
scared. 

“Don’t be frightened, Claudine,” Barham said, kindly. 
He couldn’t bear to see any woman troubled. 

“Just a few questions, Claudine,” Nelson began. “Tell 
us, briefly, all you know of Madame’s going to the masked 
ball.” 

“I know almost nothing. She had her costume made— 
perhaps a week beforehand—not more.” 

“It was done hastily, then?” 

“Yes, Madame usually gave more time than that to her 
modiste.” 




200 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Then you think Mrs. Barham knew she was going fully 
a week before the party.” 

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

“And during that week she didn’t mention the party to 
you ?” 

“Not once. Nor to any one. Not to Madame Selden, 
nor to Madame Gardner, who was here once in my pres¬ 
ence.” 

“And she said nothing of it to Mr. Barham?” 

“Not in my presence.” 

“Then, now think very carefully, Claudine, you never 
heard her speak of it to any one—not over the telephone, 
even?” 

“No”; but a telltale flush that reddened the maid’s 
cheeks aroused Nelson’s suspicions. 

“Tell the truth,” he commanded, sternly. “You do 
know of some one-” 

“I will tell—it is perhaps my duty.” 

“Yes, Claudine, tell what you know,” Barham assisted 
her. 

“Well, then, the night of the Bal Masque —Madame 
Sayre came to see Madame, and they sent me from the 
room while they talked. I-” 

“Of course, Claudine, you listened,” Nelson said, in a 
matter-of-fact way. “Well, what did you hear?” 

“It is not my habit to listen-” 

“Oh, no, of course not—w T e understand all that. Go 
on, now, and we’ll forgive your listening, if you tell 
exactly what you heard.” 

“But I heard so little. Madame was very secret with 
her message, and Madame Sayre was equally careful. I 
heard almost nothing of their talk. But I did hear my 
Madame say to Madame Sayre that she was going to the 
Bal Masque and she did tell her where it was to be.” 







A TELEPHONED WOOING 


201 


“And was Madame Sayre surprised?” Nelson asked. 

“That I can’t say—I could hear so little. Indeed, I 
heard but few actual words, but I did hear Washington 
Square—of that I am sure.” 

“But Madame Barham did not tell you she was going 
there ?” 

“No, Monsieur Nelson, she did not. I have told all.” 

“You may go, Claudine,” and the maid left the room. 

“All of no use, Nick,” Barham said, wearily. “I knew 
all that before, practically, from Rosamond Sayre her¬ 
self. Maddy sent for her—to borrow some money. And 
Maddy brought influence to bear—or, at least, I suppose 
she did. Rose didn’t say that—but she did say that she 
promised to take the money to Maddy at Emmy Gard¬ 
ner’s that evening. They were both going there to play. 
Rosamond did go, and Maddy, of course, never showed 
up. So Claudine gave us no news. Can’t we drop the 
whole thing, Nick? I mean, can’t we get out of any active 
part in it? Of course, the police-” 

“Well, all right, Drew; but you asked me to help you 
look into these things. You asked me to help you find 
the murderer of your wife. You asked me to represent 
you in the matter, and use my judgment as to what should 
be done so far as we had any choice of procedure. I’ve 
done these things—I mean I’ve tried to do them. I’ve 
used all the means at my disposal to accede to your 
demands and now you’re-” 

“Well, I’m what?” 

“I don’t know, exactly—but, you’re queer—that’s what 
you are—queer.” 

“I dare say I am, Nick. Forgive me, old chap.” 

And then Barham dropped his head into his hands and 
sat for a moment, looking so dejected and so despairing 
that Nelson was sorry for him. 








202 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“No, forgive me. Drew. I know what awful burdens 
you have to bear.” 

“Pshaw—I’m not whining. I have problems—but they 
must be faced. I can face them. What I’d like, would 
be to run away for a day or two and think things out 
by myself. How’d that be?” 

“Well—” Nelson hesitated, “don’t go until after they’ve 
settled their minds about that scarab business. You don’t 
seem to realize, Drew, they really think you took a rare 
one and returned to Hutchins a much less valuable 
specimen.” 

“Aren’t they coming to me with this tale? Aren’t they 
going to accuse me to my face?” 

“Yes, I think they are. What shall you say?” 

“What can I say, but the truth?” 

“And that is?” 

“What do you think?” 

“I think you exchanged the scarabs.” 

“Yes—I did.” 



CHAPTER XVI 


LORIMER LANE 

Nick Nelson was not an astute man—he was not even 
sharp-sighted when it came to puzzling things out, but 
he had unbounded faith in his friends and unflinching 
loyalty. 

He accepted at its face value Barham’s statement that 
he had exchanged the scarabs. He didn’t question him 
concerning the matter, he only thought it over after¬ 
ward and decided on his own line of action. 

This was neither more nor less than to put the matter 
up to an expert. Nelson couldn’t understand Barham— 
very well, then somebody else should explain him. 

From Nelson’s point of view this was no disloyalty or 
treachery to his friend, for, as he had reasoned it out, 
Barham was queer, and if people were queer they must be 
investigated. 

His faith in Barham was so absolute that though he 
knew the man had exchanged a fine scarab for one of 
lesser value, he did not for a single instant believe this 
meant any dishonesty or real wrong-doing. 

Had he been asked, he couldn’t have said what he did 
believe regarding the incident, but, he thought, there must 
be some logical and satisfactory explanation for old Bar¬ 
ham’s deed. Maybe the fine scarab was his and had 
been stolen from him—well, that did seem a bit far-fetched 
—but, anyway, Drew Barham was all right—and if he 
was so foolish as to let himself be suspected of being wrong 

—then somebody must look after him. 

203 


204 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Nick Nelson had had previous experiences of Barham’s 
queerness, and invariably it had turned out that he was 
shielding or assisting somebody else. Anyway, it must 
be looked into by some one capable of looking into it. 
Drew was getting too queer. 

And so, Nick Nelson went to the office of Lorimer Lane 
and enlisted the sympathies and then engaged the services 
of that clever and well known detective. 

“Use your own judgment,” Nelson told him, “about let¬ 
ting Mr. Barham know you are in the game. If you think 
best, be frank with him—but if it seems more advisable, 
then just let him think you’re on the police side of the 
case.” 

“Are there two sides?” Lane asked. “I’ve only the 
newspaper accounts to guide me, you know.” 

“Not two opposing sides,” Nelson told him, “but of 
course the police are trying to solve the mystery of Mrs. 
Barham’s death and of Locke’s disappearance, while Mr. 
Barham—lately, at any rate—is trying to hush up the 
whole affair. Now, the police are interested in his scarab 
business—that I’ve just told you about, and they think 
Mr. Barham is a thief. I know better—I know that he 
changed these things for some good and sufficient 
reason-” 

“Can you suggest or imagine any good and sufficient 
reason?” 

Lorimer Lane was not scoffing at Nelson’s assumption, 
on the contrary, he was seriously interested. 

Middle-aged, reserved and rather taciturn, he was glad 
to take hold of this strange case, and this new turn of 
Barham’s regarding the scarabs was both astonishing and 
intriguing. 

“No, I can’t—” Nelson confessed, “that’s why I have 
come to you. I know Andrew Barham as well as I know 





LORIMER LANE 


205 


any man on earth, and I know him to be incapable of 
dishonesty in any form. Yet, I know when he told me 
he exchanged those scarabs, he did exchange them. Now, 
I want you to find out why.” 

“On the face of it,” Lane said, “it looks very much as 
if he were shielding somebody at his own expense—that 
is, if you are right in banking so securely on his honesty.” 

“Oh, I’m right in that,” Nick returned. 

“Very well, I’ll take up the matter. Now, Mr. Nelson, 
tell me everything you know about it. Everything you 
can possibly think of that has any connection with it.” 

And Nick Nelson spent the better part of two hours, de¬ 
tailing all he knew, both from the police reports and from 
his personal knowledge of the Barhams and their friends 
and acquaintances. 

Lane was especially interested in anything concerning 
Tommy Locke—perhaps because it was regarding that 
elusive gentleman that Nelson’s information was the least 
definite. 

“He seems a harmless sort,” Nick said; “not at all the 
kind of man you think of as a murderer. A mediocre 
artist, a good pal, a quiet sort of person generally. His 
servant adores him, his friends all like him, and the little 
girl, who is supposed to be his sweetheart, is desperately 
in love with him.” 

“She’ll be a mine of information, then,” Lane observed. 
“I’m good at getting at the sweethearts.” 

“She’s not so easy, though. For a } 7 oung thing, and a 
demure, innocent looking person, she has a lot of reserve 
force of character that crops out unexpectedly. I don’t 
know her personally, you understand, though I’ve seen 
her, but Detective Hutchins has told me a lot about her. 
Sometimes I believe he thinks she’s mixed up in the actual 
crime, and then again, I feel sure he’s only pretending to 




206 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


do so, by way of urging Locke to put in an appearance 
to protect the girl.” 

‘‘If Locke knows all that is going on, and doesn’t come 
forward to look after his sweetheart, he’s a poor sort of 
chap.” 

“I think he’s in communication with her, somehow. But 
she’s so uncommunicative, it’s hard to tell.” 

“I’ll find out where she stands,” and Lane nodded his 
head in assurance. “The hardest proposition to tackle is 
Andrew Barham himself. From your description of him* 
I fancy he can hold his own against a detective’s ques¬ 
tioning.” 

“Yes, he can. But if he takes a notion to confide in 
you—and I don’t see why he shouldn’t-” 

“What does he think of Locke?” Lane interrupted. 

“He doesn’t express any definite opinion. His one ques¬ 
tion is, how did his wife happen to go to Locke’s studio. 
And, I must say we’re no nearer finding that out than 
we were the night of the murder.” 

“The whole thing is so bizarre, the whole case so incred¬ 
ible that it ought to be easy,” the detective said. 

“Easy?” 

“Yes; the more strange and unusual the circumstances, 
the easier it is, usually, to ferret out their meaning. Well, 
I’ll go ahead in my own way, and I’ll report to you, Mr. 
Nelson. As to my attitude toward Mr. Barham, I shall 
be guided by circumstances, and by developments as they 
appear. There’ll be no trouble or rivalry between me and 
the police. I’ll promise you that. I know Hutchins— 
and he’ll be friendly with me.” 

And so Lorimer Lane took up the Barham case. He 
laid aside some other matters, in order to give it his 




LORIMER LANE 


207 


full attention, for to his mind it promised to be one of 
the most interesting problems he had ever tackled. 

As a preliminary measure, he visited the studio apart¬ 
ment of Locke. 

Glenn was still there on guard, and though he was 
interested in seeing the new detective he had little confi¬ 
dence that his powers were superior to those of Hutchins 
and his assistants. 

“I’ll just go over the place,” and Lane nodded affably 
to Glenn and went off by himself. 

He noted every bit of furniture and decoration in the 
studio with critical intentness, now and then making a 
brief note of something and again, merely nodding in satis¬ 
faction at finding something indicative. 

On entering Locke’s bedroom, he closed the door, and 
spent a long time in his examinations. The bathroom, too, 
claimed his absorbed attention, and when he found on the 
glass shelf above the washstand a small bottle of powdered 
pumice stone, he chuckled with satisfaction. 

“I am on the right track!” he told himself. “Oh, what a 
case!” 

Next he scanned the smoking-room—and studied care¬ 
fully the spot where the victim had bpen found. 

The police had forbidden any meddling there, and Lane 
noted carefully every sign he could find. There was little, 
however, that seemed to mean anything, but he viewed 
with interest the white line along the rug, which the police 
had concluded was powder from the vanity-case also dis¬ 
covered near by. 

“But it isn’t!” Lane said to himself. “Powder would 
be sprinkled grains—or else a soft, wide smear. This is 
a sharp, clean line—it’s, well, I don’t know what it is—but 
I have a pretty fair idea!” 

On he went, poking into closets and cupboards, opening 




208 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


drawers and looking behind doors, until he was absolutely 
familiar with everything in the place. 

“Any light on the dark subject?” Glenn asked, as the 
detective reappeared. 

“Not much so far—but a glimmer here and there. And 
I’m sure I have the right starting-point. Where’s the 
Chinaman?” 

“In the pantry. Want him?” 

“I’ll go there,” and Lane appeared before Charley. 

He wasted no time on unimportant questions, but said, 
abruptly, “When have you heard from Mr. Locke?” 

“No more hear. He gone good-by,” said the Chinaman. 

“You are all paid up?” 

“All and some more.” 

“All bills paid?” 

“All.” 

“And on the first of the month you leave?” 

“I leave.” 

“And Mr. Locke told you over the telephone that you 
would never see or hear from him again?” 

“Yes, he tell so.” 

“All right, Charley, that’s all.” 

Still -with that satisfied expression on his face, Lorimer 
Lane started off to call on Miss Cutler. 

He was by no meaps sure what course he should pursue 
with this somewhat remarkable young woman. From what 
he had heard of her, he didn’t think she could be easily 
intimidated—perhaps it -would be wisest to treat her as a 
confidante. 

But he had great faith in his own intuitions and con¬ 
cluded he would be guided by them when they should meet. 

Pearl Jane met him as one might receive a casual caller, 
and Lane concluded at once that he must step carefully if 
he would make good with this self-possessed young person. 



LORIMER LANE 


209 


She asked him to be seated, and then sat down herself, 
with a demurely expectant face. 

“You want to question me?” she said. 

“If you please,” Lane returned courteously. “And, 
Miss Cutler, do not look on me as a prying inquisitor.” 

“Not at all—why should I?” she returned, her big 
violet eyes expressing the most innocent surprise. 

Lane was disconcerted. He hated to acknowledge it to 
himself, but he was bothered by those eyes. Either the girl 
was absolutely in the dark concerning the mystery he 
was trying to solve, or she knew more than any one else. 
He was not sure which. 

He resolved on a bold stroke. 

“Miss Cutler,” he said, bending forward and speaking 
in a low tone, “do you know Mr. Locke’s secret?” 

At least he had got under her guard. 

“His secret!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know he had one! 
Oh, you mean do I know where he is?” 

“No; I don’t mean that at all. I mean do you know 
what he is—who he is ?” 

“I know Mr. Locke for a good friend, an artist, and an 
honorable gentleman. If you mean do I know his family 
or his antecedents—I do not. There was a man who 
claimed to be his brother—but I believe the police dis¬ 
credited his story.” 

She was again in command of herself—but Lane was 
sure that his sudden question had disturbed her. He was 
sure that she did know that Locke had a secret— a big 
one—and he was equally sure that she was as ignorant of 
what it was as he was himself—perhaps more so. 

He concluded that the way to manage her was by sud¬ 
den surprising questions or statements, and he watched 
her closely as he said: “You call him an honorable man, 
and yet you suspect him of the murder of Mrs. Barham!” 



210 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


The shot told. Pearl Jane went white, and her hands 
clenched as she struggled to preserve her composure. 

She thought quickly but steadily. Her brain was clear, 
though her nerves were jumping. But she had one fixed 
principle to follow. Tommy had told her to tell the truth. 
He had emphasized that. So she did. 

She parried only a moment. “Is that a statement or a 
question?” she said. 

Lane stared at her. She certainly was surprising. 

“I’ll make it a question,” he said; “do you think Mr. 
Locke killed Mrs. Barham?” 

“It’s hard to answer,” she said, with a thoughtful look. 
“I can’t think it—and yet—yes, I do suspect him.” 

“And you still deem him an honorable man?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Do honorable men commit murder?” 

“That question I can’t answer. I dare say they have 
done so.” 

“Well, Miss Cutler, this talk gets us nowhere. Now, 
for facts. What makes you suspect Mr. Locke?” 

“Only because I saw him go downstairs and out of his 
front door. Then, when I immediately afterward went up 
the back stairs, I saw the body of Mrs. Barham there on 
the floor.” 

“And so you concluded Mr. Locke had killed her?” 

“I don’t say I concluded that. I say I suspected it.” 

“Why should he kill her?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” 

“You’re sure you didn’t kill her yourself?” 

Pearl Jane allowed herself the slightest glimmer of a 
smile, as she replied: “I’m positive of that.” 

“Well you ought to know. And you still love and re¬ 
spect Mr. Locke, even if he is a murderer?” 

“Oh, he isn’t that.” 



LORIMER LANE 


211 


“You contradict yourself-” 

“I don’t care if I do. I tell the truth. The truth may 
be contradictory. You see—circumstances make me sus¬ 
pect Mr. Locke with my mind—but-” 

“But your heart tells you he’s innocent!” 

“Yes—exactly that!” and the girl’s smile was like a 
heavenly illumination. It transformed her from merely 
a pretty child into a woman of exquisite beauty and 
charm. 

Lorimer Lane stared at her. 

“I’ve never seen any one quite like you, Miss Cutler,” 
he said, slowly. “Permit me to offer you my sincere admira¬ 
tion and appreciation.” 

And now Pearl Jane stared at him. Her smile faded, 
she looked haughty and resentful. 

But as she realized that Lane was really sincere, she 
smiled at him and with him, and in that moment their 
friendship was sealed. 

“Remember,” he said, “I told you at the start, that I 
want to be friendly. Now, if you will help me, and if you 
will continue to be truthful, I’ve an idea that we can clear 
your Mr. Locke from the suspicion of murder, what¬ 
ever other crime he may be guilty of.” 

“Of course,” she said, assuredly, “and he isn’t guilty of 
any crime.” 

“Not crime, perhaps—but-” 

Lane hesitated, but his scrutiny of the young face gave 
no answering appreciation of the thought he had in mind, 
and he concluded she did not share his suspicions. 

He went away, well satisfied with the interview, and 
especially well satisfied with Pearl Jane. 

“She’s a hummer!” he said to himself, “and I hope to 
goodness I can get her Tommy back for her. If he’s 
all I think him, they will some day be a happy couple!” 








212 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


And Lorimer Lane might have felt his opinion verified 
if he could have heard a conversation that ensued soon 
after his departure. 

It was over the telephone, and Pearl Jane held the 


receiver at one end. 

At the other end was a man, who said a joyful “Yes!” 
in response to her query, “Is that you, Tommy?” 

“Can we have a long talk?” Pearl Jane asked. 

“No, dear, I can only say a few words to you. Things 
are happening and I don’t know what the future holds. 
Tell me this, my little girl—can you keep faith and trust 
in me whatever happens?” 

“Yes, Tommy, whatever happens.” 

“But what happens may surprise you beyond all 
bounds.” 

“My faith and trust are beyond all bounds.” 

“Bless you, dear heart. Yet what you learn may cause 
you to despise me-” 

“No—not that. If you love me—if you want me—I am 
your Pearl Jane forever—whether we ever meet again 
or not.” 

“All right, sweetheart, then, remember this. When you 
hear—as you may, the most astonishing news—remember 
that I love you, I —I love you!” 

“Why do you emphasize the I? There is no one in the 
world for me, but the man you call I. My Tommy—my 
own Tommy Locke.” 

“Yes—Pearl Jane—your own Tommy Locke. Good- 
by, sweetheart, I daren’t stay longer. Trust me through 
all mysteries, and some day we can be happy together. 

“Really, Tommy?” 

“Really, dear. Good-by. 

Pearl Jane was bewildered, but happy. Tommy was in¬ 
explicable, but she knew—she knew he was no murderer, 




99 





LORIMER LANE 


213 


or criminal of any sort. He was her Tommy, and some 
day they would be happy together. He had said so, and 
that was enough for Pearl Jane. 

It was the next day before Lane obtained an interview 
with Andrew Barham. 

He had w T aited on that gentleman’s convenience, and 
when he was finally admitted to his presence the detective 
looked covertly at the man whose acquaintance he was 
about to make. 

“You wished to see me?” Barham said, courteously. 
“On what errand?” 

And suddenly, Lane made up his mind. 

“Regarding the mystery of your wife’s death,” he said, 
frankly. “I wish to take up the case, and solve it, if 
possible. I should be glad to know your attitude toward 
me—or toward my work.” 

“Mr. Lane,” and Barham looked very grave, “I suppose 
it is right and just that the mystery of my wife’s death 
should be solved. But—I want to say, that I, personally, 
would greatly prefer to have the whole matter dropped. 
I should prefer never to know the truth of the case, rather 
than have certain painful revelations made, that must be 
made if the whole story comes out.” 

“You refer, Mr. Barham, to your wife’s unfortunate 
losses at Bridge?” 

“And her consequent wrong-doing in connection there¬ 
with,” said Andrew Barham, looking at Lane unflinch¬ 
ingly ; “and not only that phase of the matter, but other 
equally distressing circumstances. These things would 
redound to the grief and pain of my wife’s mother, an 
elderly lady, and also to the disparagement, even dis¬ 
grace of my wife’s memory. I hold that the only good 
done by a solution of the mystery of her death would be 




214 


MOKE LIVES THAN ONE 


the punishment of the murderer. While we all feel that 
such a crime should be avenged, I, myself, would rather 
never know the truth, than to expose all.” 

“I understand and appreciate, Mr. Barham, your atti¬ 
tude, but I cannot look at it as you do. Moreover, the 
police are not willing to look at it in that light, either. 
Now, I must tell you, that I propose to go on with my 
investigations, and I will say right now, if you have any 
confession to make, or explanations to give, I should be 
glad to hear them. I am not antagonistic: on the con¬ 
trary, I want to meet your wishes in so far as I can, 
but-” 

“Mr. Lane—I may as well say that I know who sent you 
here. I know whose doing it is that you have taken up 
this case. It is at the request of my dear friend, Mr. 
Nelson. He is doing it out of the best of motives—he 
thinks I am sacrificing myself for some one else.” 

“And aren’t you?” 

Andrew Barham smiled. 

“Not exactly,” he said. “And yet,” he looked very 
grave, “if you delve too deeply into this matter, if you 
try too hard to discover the murderer of my wife—it 
will make-” 

He stopped abruptly, and seemed to draw back into 
himself as into a shell. 

“I would rather say no more, Mr. Lane. If you want 
to question me I am quite prepared to answer.” 

“Then, Mr. Barham, did you or did you not exchange 
the scarab that Mr. Hutchins showed you for another and 
less valuable one?” 

“I did, Mr. Lane.” 

“Will you tell me why you did that?” 

“Because the valuable scarab was my own property, 
and I desired to have it again in my possession.” 







LORIMER LANE 


215 


“It was stolen from you, then?” 

“No, not stolen—it was taken by some one who meant 
well.” 

“It was taken,” Lane looked at Barham, steadily, “by 
Miss Cutler from the hand of your dead wife?” 

“Yes,” said Andrew Barham. 



CHAPTER XVII 


THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 

“Well, Mr. Nelson, I’ve solved part of the mystery, 
at any rate,” said Lorimer Lane, as he went to make his 
first formal report to Nick Nelson. “I’m afraid you’ll 
be sorry rather than otherwise, but the disclosure was 
bound to come.” 

“I may be sorry I called you in at all,” Nelson re¬ 
sponded, gloomily. “My friend Mr. Barham is not pleased 
at my bringing you into the matter.” 

“I knew it, and I am not surprised. You see, his secret 
was safe, until my advent. Without undue conceit, I may 
say I feel sure the police would never have discovered it.” 

“Well, what is it?” 

“It’s simply this. The missing artist Thomas Locke 
can never be found—for the simple reason that there is 
no such person.” 

Nelson stared at the detective. 

“Explain, please,” he said briefly. 

“I will. The artist, Locke, and your friend, Mr. Andrew 
Barham, are one and the same person.” 

“Oh, now, Mr. Lane, that’s a little too much. I can’t 
take it in.” 

“Take it slowly. I shouldn’t make the statement unless 
I knew it to be true. If you will think it over as I detail 
my arguments, I am sure you’ll be convinced.” 

“Go ahead.” 

“To begin with, it would be practically impossible for 

a man to disappear so utterly off the face of the earth, 

216 


THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 


217 


*- - . 

as Locke seems to have done. With a large reward offered 
for his apprehension, no man could hide his personality 
so long and so cleverly and escape all discovery or detec¬ 
tion. But, aside from that, I have proved my case to my 
own satisfaction, as I am sure I can prove it to yours.” 

“I’m trying to grasp it. But, before anything else, 
why would Andrew Barham cut up any such trick as that? 
Why?” 

“I will tell you. I may as well tell you that first. I 
have studied Mr. Barham for three days now—I have 
inquired among his friends and acquaintances—in a 
roundabout way—I have interviewed his servants and I 
have even talked with his mother-in-law. A most sur¬ 
prisingly unpleasant old lady.” 

“And you learned?” 

“I learned that for some reason, Andrew Barham chose 
to lead a double life. He was part of the time a resident 
of Fifth Avenue and a society man. Also, part of the 
time, he was Thomas Locke, artist, of Washington 
Square.” 

“Have you taxed him with this?” 

“I have not. I am employed by you—so I come to you 
with my findings. If you say so, my discovery shall ga> 
no further.” 

“I don’t know what to say—I am too amazed for words. 
If any lesser detective than yourself told me this thing 
I should scoff at it. But I know your reputation, I 
know your prowess, and I feel I must believe you—at least 
I must believe that you believe this thing yourself.” 

“I know it. As to the more positive bits of evidence, 
let me call to your mind the wig, left behind in the mid¬ 
night scramble with the policeman. Mr. Barham, of 
course, pursued his career as Locke, in disguise. He 
couldn’t have managed it any other way. His disguise 



218 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


was not elaborate but it was effective. It consisted only 
of the well-made and perfectly fitting wig of long black 
hair, the large and heavy-rimmed glasses and two gold 
caps for his eye teeth. With these he was sufficiently 
changed in appearance for his purpose.” 

“Those things couldn’t really disguise him.” 

“Not from you or from any one who knew him. But 
he didn’t need that. All he wanted was a different per- 
for the artist that should in no way resemble 
the real Andrew Barham. He never expected to meet the 
same people in his two separate walks of life. And so, he 
went his way in his Fifth Avenue surroundings, and occa¬ 
sionally, when he chose, he went away, down to Washington 
Square for a day or two. His frequent absences from 
the studio, and also, from his Barham home, are thus 
explained.” 

“I can’t take it in. Hid his wife know of this?” 

“Most certainly not. No one knew it. But, to my 
mind, it was a suspicion of it that made Mrs. ‘Barham go 
down there that night to find out.” 

“Mr. Lane, I don’t believe a word of all this! I can’t 
believe it! You are carried away with it all as a theory, 
and you are trying to make things prove up. But it’s 
too preposterous—too incredible-” 

“Wait a minute, Mr. Nelson, how about this? In Mr. 
Barham’s desk drawer, the one at his right hand, as he 
usually sits, I found concealed under some papers, the 
small picture of Miss Cutler that disappeared from the 
studio that night of the reappearance of Locke.” 

And then Nick Nelson remembered how Barham had 
continually fumbled in that drawer on certain occasions 
when Nelson had been there. Was the man in love with 
Pearl Jane? Was he really Locke? Nelson’s brain seemed 
to spin around. 





THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 


219 


“This won’t do,” he said after a moment. “I can’t take 
the responsibility of your disclosures. Come with me at 
once to Andrew Barham. We will lay all our cards on 
the table. If he has done this thing—he will tell me so. I 
know Barham.” 

And so the detective and the man who had employed 
him went together to Barham’s office. 

He received them gravely, seeming to know their errand. 

He took them to his private office, and at once opened 
the subject himself. 

“My secret is a secret no longer,” he said, and looked 
at Nelson with a strange, almost wistful smile. 

“Tell me it isn’t so. Drew,” Nelson cried; “tell me you 
never did such a thing!” 

“As what ?” 

“As to pretend to be Locke—and all that!” 

“Is it so terrible?” Barham looked thoughtful. “Yes, 
I am Locke, as I see Mr. Lane has already discovered. Do 
you want to hear the story, Nick?” 

“Indeed I do.” 

“It isn’t a unique one, I daresay.” Barham still had 
that far-away look in his eyes and an absorbed expression 
on his face. 

But he told his story with dignity and with a fine faith 
in Nelson’s ability and willingness to understand. 

“You know, Nick, that Maddy and I were never con¬ 
genial in our tastes or in our selection of companions. I 
couldn’t bear that crowd that she enjoyed so much, and 
she never liked the quieter people I preferred. 

“I honestly tried to adapt my preferences to hers, and 
to bring about a state of affairs whereby we could be more 
congenial, but she wouldn’t make any concessions. I’m 
not blaming her, you understand, but—well, I suppose the 




220 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


main trouble was that I couldn’t play Bridge—that is, 
not as her cronies played it. Nor did I want to. I have 
none of the gambling instinct, none of the craving for that 
sort of excitement. Maddy had. 

“The result was, we drifted more and more apart. I 
used to take her to the card parties and go for her when 
they were over—but they kept up so late, and it irked her 
to have me waiting for her—well, never mind all that. I 
became bored and restless because almost every night I 
was left alone to amuse myself—or, to enjoy the com¬ 
pany of Mrs. Selden. I went to the clubs a lot, of course, 
but they didn’t give me what I wanted. I longed for an 
interest in life, a few congenial spirits, and most of all I 
wanted to follow up a taste for painting that I had as a 
younger man. 

“I tried it at home, but Maddy objected to the smell 
of paint in the house, so I concluded to set up a studio. 
I had no thought, at first, of what came about afterward 
—but one night I went to a masquerade with Madeleine. I 
wore that long haired wig, which so became me and looked 
so natural on me—that after a while some such idea as I 
finally carried out began to take shape in my brain. I 
mulled over it a j^ear before I decided to try it, and then— 
after a desperate attempt to persuade Maddy to give 
me at least part of her time, and failing, I set up my 
studio. 

“The disguise and the double life were partly to be free 
from intrusion and interruption—to have a sort of haven 
and sanctuary all to myself—and partly, out of a spirit 
of bravado. If Maddy could lead her life—I could lead 
mine, I argued. I wasn’t so very keen about keeping it 
secret—indeed, if my wife had discovered it I was in no 
way ashamed of it. 

“But, as time went on, I found I was changing. 
I was becoming more and more Tommy Locke and less 





THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 


221 


and less Andrew Barham. I began to realize that I had 
gone farther than I intended—that I had burned bridges 
behind me that I never could rebuild. Time and again I 
tried to give up that other life—tried to resolve to close 
up the studio and never go back to it. I kept things 
arranged that way—there was always money enough in 
Charley’s possession to pay all bills and settle up all 
claims, if I could conclude to give up the other life 
I led. 

‘‘But I couldn’t do it. Always I would drift back there 
again.” 

“But how, Drew, how could you work it? Why were 
you never discovered—or suspected.” 

“It was easy,” Barham said. “I had so many out of 
town engagements in connection with my business that 
no one at home was surprised at my absence for several 
days at a time. And, at the other end, no one ever thought 
of questioning my goings or comings. It was really all 
very innocent and decent. I had good friends—no inti¬ 
mates, and no-” 

“You are sure you want me to hear all this revelation, 
Mr. Barham?” Lane asked, noting the confidences that 
were evidently meant for Nelson. 

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Lane. Yes—I think I’d rather 
you understood the w r hole situation. That’s about all, 
anyway. The disguise became second nature to me. I 
could achieve it in a moment or two. Many a time I have 
left the house in Fifth Avenue, ostensibly for a trip to 
Chicago or St. Louis. In my bag I had my wig, glasses, 
collar and tie, and a few such things. I would take a 
taxi from the station, whither my own chauffeur had driven 
me, and in it I w T ould make the change in my appearance. 
The taxi driver rarely noticed it—if he did a five dollar 
bill closed his mouth. I would get out a few blocks from 
the studio and walk to it. I cannot tell you how I enjoyed 





222 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


the rest and freedom from my distressing home life—yes, 
I may as well admit it was distressing. Madeleine grew 
continually harder to live with, and Mrs. Selden was 
always a thorn in my flesh. I would not make these 
disclosures, Nick, but I must make you understand.” 

“I do understand, Andrew, and I want you to know it!” 

Nelson impulsively reached over and grasped his friend’s 
hand. 

Lorimer Lane, too, showed appreciation and under¬ 
standing, but he was eagerly awaiting the rest of the 
story. His leaping mind had already jumped to the last 
chapter. 

“But,” Barham resumed, “there never was a truer word 
than Oscar Wilde wrote in his ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol.’ 

“For he who lives more lives than one. 

More deaths than one must die. 

“I have proved that over and over again. I have lived 
a double life, it is true, and I have paid for it by dying a 
thousand deaths in my conscience. I have suffered re¬ 
morse untold—I have so loathed mvself at times that I 
would willingly have died in earnest to get out of it all. 
And then—the urge would be so strong, the desire for 
that little home, those few good friends—that I would go 
back there in spite of myself.” 

“And I don’t blame }mu!” cried Nelson. “It was no 
crime, Drew. Many a man lives a double life of far 
more ignominy and shame.” 

“There was no ignominy, no shame,” said Barham, 
gravely, “but it was deceit—and I am not naturallv a 
deceitful man. I could look at it all calmly and dispas¬ 
sionately while I was down at the studio, but when I was 




THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 


223 


at home, at my own table, with those two unsuspecting 
women, I felt the veriest scoundrel on the face of the 
earth.” 

“Well you’re not!” and Nelson again grasped the hand 
of his friend. 

“I agree to that,” said Lane, looking earnestly at 
Barham. “But now—will you tell us all you know about 
the night of the masquerade?” 

Barham looked up quickly.. 

“You think I killed my wife, Mr. Lane. I don’t blame 
you—or, rather, I mean, I can’t wonder at it. When 
the police know this story and I suppose they must, I 
shall be suspected—probably accused—possibly con¬ 
victed. That I must bear—for ‘he who lives more lives 
than one, more deaths than one must die.’ But—I didn’t 
kill my wife.” 

“Thank God!” and Nelson’s fervent expression told 
how eagerly he had been waiting for this declaration. He 
believed Barham implicitly; as he believed the whole story 
he had just heard, so he believed the statement of Bar¬ 
ham’s innocence regarding the murder of Madeleine. 

“Now the thing is to find the criminal,” Nick exclaimed, 
his whole face almost radiant with his relief. 

But Lane was not so sure of Barham’s integrity. 

“Tell us about the party,” he said, his eyes fixed on 
Barham’s face. 

“I will,” and Barham sensed the doubt in the detec¬ 
tive’s mind. “I had no wish to have it but some friends 
urged me to, and though I never had given a large party 
before, I consented, on condition that they should do all 
the planning and ordering. To this they consented and 
even sent out the invitations. I didn’t go down until the 
night of the ball.” 



224 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Will you detail your movements that evening?” Lane 
asked him. 

“Certainly. I was at home for dinner. Afterward, I 
went to the Club—you remember, Nick, I talked with you 
a few moments. After that I merely left the Club, walked 
a block or two, took a taxi, made the necessary changes 
in my appearance while in the taxi. That is, I did so in 
part. As I reached the studio before any guests arrived, 
I could fix myself up at my leisure.” 

“One moment, Mr. Barham. Was part of your disguise 
a change in your especially w r hite teeth?” 

“Yes;” and Barham looked surprised at the question. 
“I had a small vial of a brown colored preparation. A 
swallow of that and my teeth were stained rather darker 
than they really are. I confess I became a bit of an 
expert at it.” 

“And you used pumice stone to remove that brown 
stain. It was the pumice stone in your studio bathroom 
that helped me to my conclusions.” 

“Right,” and Barham smiled a little ruefully. “I was 
not very clever, was I? But, as I told you, I really had 
no very great fear of discovery. I mean, if, or when I was 
discovered, I was ready to admit it all. However, to 
resume. By the time the guests arrived, I was completely 
my other self, and arrayed in my monk’s robe. Then the 
party began.” 

Barham paused, as if unable to go on with his recital. 

But Lane was -waiting, eager and anxious for the rest. 

“I didn’t enjoy the party much,” Barham said; “I care 
little for dancing and the whole thing bored me.” 

“And then your wife came,” Lane said, pointedly. 

Andrew Barham looked the detective straight in the 
eye. 



THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 


225 


“I didn’t see my wife arrive,” he said. “I didn’t know 
she was there. I came away before the alarm of her 
death was raised—and I had no idea that she was in that 

s 

house.” 

“Why did you leave so suddenly and so unceremoni¬ 
ously ?” 

“That I shall not tell you—but it was in no way 
connected with my wife’s presence on the scene—of which 
I state, on my word of honor, I was entirely unaware.” 

Lorimer Lane looked disappointed. And he was. Not 
that he, now, really suspected Andrew Barham guilty of 
his wife’s death, but so far he had believed in his veracity, 
and now he doubted it. There could be no reason, he 
argued, that would made Barham leave as he did leave, 
except the knowledge of his wife’s presence at the ball, 
either alive or dead. 

“You say you left before the alarm of Mrs. Barham’s 
death was raised; but she was already dead when you 
ran out of the front door.” 

“I didn’t run out.” 

“No; on the contrary, you walked out casually, saying 
you would be back in a few moments.” 

“I did.” 

“Why did you go?” 

“I cannot tell you.” 

“You mean you will not?” 

“I mean I will not.” 

“Oh, Drew, for Heaven’s sake, tell us,” Nelson cried, in 
genuine distress. “You’ve been so frank and honest till 
now, do tell me the truth. Why did you go—if you didn’t 
know Madeleine was there?” 

“I can’t tell you, Nick. Mr. Lane, I refuse to tell. 
You asked for my story, you have heard it. Now, it is 
up to you to make what use of it you see fit.” 




226 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


Andrew Barham folded his arms and sat back in his 
chair, as one who has played his part. 

But Lane pursued his inquiries. 

“Now, how about the scarab, Mr. Barham?” 

“Oh, yes, the scarab. It is my own—and is, as Charley 
called it, a ‘lucky piece.’ I have had it for years, and I 
am a bit superstitious about it. Foolishly, I took it down 
to the studio and left it there. It was, I think, on the 
table in the den, and—I am only surmising now—but I 
fancy my wife saw it and recognized it as mine. She 
had it in her hand when she died—that is certain. Miss 
Cutler, thinking I cherished it, took it and saved it for 
me. My Chinaman saw this. Well, never mind all that— 
when Detective Hutchins showed it to me, I knew at once 
that the Museum people would recognize it as mine. It is 
a famous specimen. So I substituted another for it— 
both being my own property.” 

“Yes—I see,” and Lane pondered a few moments. 
“Now, Mr. Barham, in view of your frank disclosures, I 
must ask you if you want me to continue my investigation 
of the case. 

“I do not.” 

“Do you, Mr. Nelson?” 

“I want whatever Mr. Barham wants. He is my friend, 
and I agree to any decision he may make.” 

“Can you tell me, Mr. Barham,” Lane went on, thought¬ 
fully, “why your wife went down there that evening?” 

“No; I cannot. That is what puzzles me. I should 
think it might be possible that she had seen or heard 
something that made her suspect the truth about me, 
and that she went down to see for herself. But I cannot 
think that; first, because I can see no possible way in 
which her suspicions could have been aroused, and also. 



THE TRUTH ABOUT LOCKE 


227 


because her whole attitude toward me of late had been 
kinder and more pleasant than usual.” 

44 Yet it might have been that she suspected your decep¬ 
tion,” Lane said. 

44 Yes, it might be,” Barham agreed. “I’ve thought over 
that a great deal, but I can come to no conclusion.” 

“And that night, Mr. Barham, when you left the studio 
party you came directly home?” 

“I did. I took a bus on Fifth Avenue which came up 
to my own door. I rode a few blocks past, and walked 
back. I let myself in with my latchkey, and went at 
once to my room and to bed.” 

44 You refuse to tell why you left the party?” 

“I refuse.” 

“Very well, go on.” 

“I had been in bed less than an hour, when my man 
called me to the telephone, and I heard the astounding 
news that my wife was dead—or, as they put it, fatally 
injured—in my own studio! I was absolutely stunned 
with amazement. Understand, I had no idea she was there 
when I left the place.” 

“Mr. Barham, that is the one point of your story that 
I can’t believe!” 

“I believe it!” Nelson cried. “I know it is true if you 
say so, Drew. Go on.” 

“That’s all there is to tell. I went down there at the 
summons of the police, and I found my wife there—dead. 
I cannot tell you of my surprise and horror—and bewilder¬ 
ment. Nor do I yet understand why she was there.” 

“And after all that—Mr. Barham, you returned to the 
studio in your disguise?” 

“I went down first in my rightful name. I went with 
Mr. Nelson, in hopes I might find my scarab, which I 
greatly prized, and which I knew would be recognized as 



228 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


mine if found. But I couldn’t find it—so I secretly left 
a note for Charley asking him to search for it.” 

“But you went dow T n again—in your Locke disguise, and 
had a set to with the man Glenn—and lost your wig!” 

Andrew Barham couldn’t repress a slight smile at the 
recollection and only replied, “Yes, I did.” 

“What did you go for?” 

“I don’t care to tell you.” 

“Then I’ll tell you. You went for the picture of Miss 
Cutler. You secured it, and brought it home with you, 
and it is now in your desk drawer at home.” 

Andrew Barham looked a little surprised, but he said, 
“Since you know that, I will tell you that I did do so. 
I will tell you, too, that I do care for Miss Cutler, and 
I hope some day in the future to tell her so in person. 
But I want to say that not o 
her during the life of my wife, but I did not realize it 
myself. It is only since my series of troubles began, that 
I have learned the state of my own heart, and I will say 
to you two men in confidence, that I do love Pearl Jane 
Cutler, but I will ask you to respect my secret, for the 
present, at least.” 

Andrew Barham was so quietly dignified, so truly frank, 
that the two men who listened felt a renewed respect for 
him, and Lane hastily revised certain of his decisions. 

Nick Nelson merely grasped once again the hand of 
his friend, and there was no need of words between them. 


nly did I never hint this to 





CHAPTER XVIII 


THE WHOLE TRUTH 

But while this was all satisfactory to the friends of 
Andrew Barham it was not so easily accepted by the 
police. 

Hutchins and Dickson both listened to the whole story 
as detailed by Lorimer Lane to them. 

“Are you sure about this thing?” Dickson asked. “I 
had sort of a notion that Locke was a masquerader, but I 
couldn’t make the facts fit it. Why, the two men are 
directly opposite in character—I mean Barham and the 
artist.” 

“No, they’re not,” Lane contradicted. “That’s what 
I noticed first. They have much in common. The ap¬ 
pointments of Locke’s bathroom, the fine towels, the 
expensive soaps and all that, first struck me as being out 
of keeping with a poor artist, and hinted at a cultured 
gentleman. The furniture of the place is not elaborate, 
but all the little personal belongings betoken a luxury- 
loving nature. Oh, well, the man himself told me the 
whole story—we can’t very well doubt it.” 

“No, of course not,” Dickson agreed, “but it’s a pretty 
big yarn to swallow. And, moreover, that settles the 
question of the murder. Of course it was Barham who 
killed his wife. She went down there to spy on him and 
he killed her and ran away. Too easy. All for the love 
of the little Cutler girl, of course.” 

“I don’t think Barham killed his wife,” Lane demurred. 

“He isn’t the sort to do that. And, too, he said himself 

229 


230 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


he didn’t realize that he cared for the little girl until 
after his wife was dead.” 

“And you fell for that! No, Mr. Lane, his affection 
for the young lady dates farther back. I can see the 
whole situation, and I haven’t the least doubt that Mrs. 
Barham discovered—or, at least suspected her husband’s 
double life and went to the masquerade ball in order to 
see for herself. That’s why she told no one where she 
was going. That’s why she told her chauffeur to take 
her there that night, meaning to go on to the Gardner 
party afterward. Then Barham, finding her there—of 
course he would know her in any costume—had a quarrel 
with her, and either with intent to kill her, or merely 
in a fit of blind rage, he flung the bronze at her and 
she fell. Immediately, Barham went down the front stairs, 
gave his monk’s robe to his servant, told the doorman he 
would be back shortly, and disappeared. Could there be 
a better way out of it all? He went back at once to his 
home, and, returning to his life as Andrew Barham, was 
free from all suspicion of his crime. I for one don’t want 
any clearer case against him.” 

“I don’t believe it,” Lane mused; “I can’t believe it. 
He was so convincing as he told his story-” 

“Of course he was. He’s a clever man and a shrewd 
one. But he can’t convince me. I want some one else 
to hang this crime on, before I give up my hope of hanging 
it on him. He’s the logical criminal, he’s the obvious one 
—in a word, there’s no other way to look.” 

“No”; Lane insisted. “You’re wrong and I know you’re 
wrong—and I’ll prove you’re wrong. Give me a couple 
of days—give me twenty-four hours before you arrest 
Andrew Barham, and I’ll give you another suspect—and 
the right one, or I’ll eat my own words.” 






THE WHOLE TRUTH 


231 


The police agreed to this, saying they should, however, 
keep a close w T atch on Barham’s movements. 

As a matter of fact, Andrew Barham was at that 
moment making up his mind about a very important 
matter. 

He had divulged his secret to the detective. Lane, who 
had, Barham was sure, gone straight to the police with 
it. Also, he had told Nick Nelson, his best friend, the 
whole truth. There was another still who deserved to 
hear the truth, and to her Barham was going to tell it. 

He was a little uncertain how Pearl Jane would take 
the story. He had deceived her, he couldn’t deny that. 
Would she forgive him and be friends—or, would she 
resent it all too much?” 

At any rate, he must find out. Barham was not the 
sort who fears to put it to the touch to win or lose it all. 

And, he concluded to himself, if she scorns me, and re¬ 
fuses ever to see me again—well, that’s one more death 
to die. 

So, from his own house, and on his own telephone, he 
called up Pearl Jane. 

“Tommy!” she exclaimed, delightedly. 

“Yes, dear—Tommy. Now, I am coming to see you— 
and I—well I don’t know just how to say what I have to 
say. But, Mr. Barham will come to see you first.” 

“Mr. Barham!” 

“Yes, Mr. Andrew Barham. When he comes—see him 
—-will you, Pearl Jane?” 

“Why, of course—but what can he want to see me 
about ?” 

“You’ll find out when he comes. Just receive him— 
and, be alone, will you?” 

“Yes, of course I’ll do whatever you say, Tommy.” 




232 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


And in less than half an hour, Pearl Jane was informed 
of Mr. Barham’s arrival. 

“Send him up,” she said—and sat, wondering. 

And then Andrew Barham went up to Pearl Jane’s 
little sitting room. 

She had never seen him before—to her knowledge. 

But as soon as she did see him, she divined the truth at 
once. 

“You—you are Tommy!” she said, looking at his blond 
hair, and gazing straight into his eyes, unhindered now 
by the large disfiguring glasses. 

“Y es, dear—sit down and listen to my story.” 

And then in his own simple, straightforward way, An¬ 
drew Barham told the girl the history of his double life 
—the reasons for it—and the closing of it by the tragedy 
that had come into it. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asked, looking deep into 
her wondering eyes. 

“I? I have nothing to forgive! You committed no 
crime against me.” 

“I committed no crime at all, dear. I did not kill my 
wife.” 

“But you know who did?” 

“I have a suspicion, Pearl Jane, a grave suspicion. I 
think I do know who killed her. But I cannot tell of it. 
I cannot bring myself to cast suspicion on one who may, 
after all, be as innocent as I am myself. First, though, 
I v ant to make my peace with you. \ou don’t resent, 
then, my deception of you—of you all? It was such 
a comfort to me to live the studio life—to have the studio 
friends—oh, little girl, you can never know how awful 
my home life was!” 

“Why, dear? How?” 

The gentle sympathy brought it all out in a rush of 




THE WHOLE TRUTH 


233 


words. Barham had never expected to divulge his secret 
woes, but this girl’s attitude was so confidential, so recep¬ 
tive, he couldn’t help it. 

“My wife was utterly uncongenial to me,” he said, “this 
is no disparagement to her—she was a fine woman—but 
her tastes were all for society, and especially, Bridge 
playing society. I hate card playing, and so we had 
nothing in common. She knew and admitted this, and 
we drifted farther and farther apart. Too, I wanted 
to paint—I know I’m not an artist, but I love it so. My 
wife objected to my painting at home, so I set up a 
studio down here. I had no intention, at first, of keeping 
it secret, but it seemed better to do so, if I would be let 
alone, so I carried out the plan. 

“And, as is my habit with anything I undertake, I 
carried it out thoroughly. I used every precaution that 
no one should suspect that Thomas Locke was Andrew 
Barham. And it was not at all difficult. I soon had 
the whole matter so well adjusted and the double life so 
perfectly arranged, that no one ever suspected such a 
thing. Nor do I feel myself under any obligation to 
apologize for it, or even explain it to any one except 
you.” 

“Why to me?” and Pearl Jane looked at him with a 
wistful little smile. 

“Because, dear—because I love you. It sounds strange 
for a man to say that, so soon after his wife’s death. 
But I am truthful, Pearl, and I tell you honestly, I didn’t 
know that I loved you until after Madeleine was gone 
from me. I had never analyzed or realized my feelings 
toward you. I think, had my wife lived, I never should 
have done so. I felt friendly toward you, but I had 
never thought of loving you. But that night at the 
party you touched my hand—and a thrill went all through 



234 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


me—and I wondered at it. However, had Madeleine lived, 
and had I thought I was growing fond of you, I should 
have given up the studio, and put you out of my life. I 
owed her that. But now she is dead, and while con¬ 
vention should make me keep silent, for a time at least, I 
waive convention and I tell } r ou that I love you. Not as 
Tommy Locke, hut as Andrew Barham, I love you, and 
after a time, I want to make you my wife. What is your 
answer, Pearl—little Pearl?” 

“There can be but one answer,” she returned, tears in 
her lovely eyes. “I love you, you , whoever you are, or 
whatever your name is. I am so overcome at what you 
have told me—I am so bewildered—I can’t seem to think 
it all out yet. But one thing I know—I love you and 
I’m glad —glad you love me.” 

And then she was in his arms, sobbing out all her 
bewilderment and surprise on his breast. 

“Darling,” he said, “I do love you w T ith all my heart and 
soul. And the time will come—some day, when I shall 
proudly claim you for my wife, and gladly take you into 
my heart and home openly. But for the present—for your 
sake as well as my own, we must keep our love a secret.” 

“Of course—it is the only thing to do. And—and 
maybe you will change your mind-” 

“Don’t, darling, don’t say such things. You are the 

love of mv life. I never cared for Madeleine as I love 
%/ 

you—you dear, sweet little thing! She was a lovely 
woman and a beautiful one. You are my little com¬ 
panion, my beloved child—my other self. We shall be 
happy together, both after we are married, and also 
before. We can be friends at once, and we can be more 
and more to each other as time goes on. I am yours 
now and forever, and though convention seems to make 








THE WHOLE TRUTH 


235 


it wiser for us to stay apart for a time, yet if you say so— 
we will go away at once—together, forever.” 

“No, no, dear, I don’t want that. I know how the 
world will look at us, and I know it’s best and wisest to 
keep our secret for a time. I can’t get used to it myself! 
Tommy—I think I shall always call you Tommy—you did 
wear a wig, didn’t you? But, as you assured me, you 
are not bald!” 

And they laughed together at the idea. 

“Also, I miss your gold teeth,” Pearl Jane went on. 
“That was a clever dodge.” 

“Yes—I felt I must make mvself into two men, as 
widely differentiated as possible. So the gold caps and 
the big glasses and the wig seemed enough, and they 
were enough to allay any and all suspicion. 

“Though there never was any chance for suspicion. 
Nobody ever dreamed of the identity of the two men.” 

“And did your wife suspect it? Was that why she 
came to the studio?” 

“I think that must be the truth. At first, I couldn’t 
believe it, but I think now there is no other explanation. 
Had she made herself known to me while there, or had 
she taxed me with the whole thing at any time, I was 
quite ready to own up and confess the whole business. 
I was ready and willing to tell her the truth; that I 
couldn’t be happy at home, that I wanted a studio and 
a studio life, and that I had as much right to it as she 
had to her Bridge-playing career. The only difference 
was that I led my chosen life secretly, and she did not. 
But that was because I wanted to be left to myself and 
not bothered by the friends and acquaintances of our 
social life. Had my wife known of my studio, she would 
have been everlastingly coming down there and bringing 
her friends. That was the atmosphere I wanted to get 






236 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


away from. Well, there’s the story, Pearl, dear. And 
now that you know it, and forgive me, I don’t care for the 
opinion or criticism of anybody else.’* 

“And about the murder?” 

“Yes—about that. As I told you I have a suspicion—a 
strong one, that I know who did it. But I shall not men¬ 
tion any name, unless I have to-” 

“To clear yourself.” 

“Yes—and for you. I had partly thought I would 
let myself be suspected, rather than accuse another. But, 
now that I have you to consider, I can’t let myself be 
wrongly accused. I must keep my name fair against the 
time when I can give it to you. Pearl Barham—I think 
we’ll leave out the Jane. I never liked that part of it.” 

“Call me whatever you like—Tommy,” and little Pearl 
gave Barham a glance of absolute adoration and love. 

“Dear heart,” he said, and taking her into his embrace 
he covered her sweet face with kisses. 

But the future of Andrew Barham was still beset with 
difficulties. 

Hutchins came to him, and told him the attitude of 
the police. The detective admitted that Lorimer Lane 
did not think Barham guilty of the murder of his wife, 
but that unless he could produce some other suspect, the 
police must soon arrest him. 

“Then, I shall have to tell of my own suspicion,” Bar¬ 
ham said gravely. “I hoped not to do so—I hoped the 
case could go out of existence as one of those unsolved 
mysteries. But, if it must be—it must, and, much as I 
dislike to do so, I will tell of my suspicions and you can 
investigate them.” 

But before Hutchins left. Lane came in and declared 
that he had himself discovered another way to look, and 







THE WHOLE TRUTH 


237 


he wished Barham’s sanction of his work in that direction. 

“It is a woman,” Lane said, and at once he saw, from 
the expression on Andrew Barham’s face, he had hit it 
right—so far. 

“I deduced much from that pair of long, white gloves,” 
Lane went on. “They are of a make superior to those 
worn by most of the ladies at that party. They are 
Paris gloves, and they are small and dainty. I feel sure 
none of the other guests had gloves like that. I mean 
they betoken the presence there of one of Mrs. Barham’s 
friends—one of her own circle of society. I have again 
interviewed Claudine, and I find that Mrs. Sayre, the 
lady who visited Mrs. Barham that evening was being— 
•well, the word must be used—was being blackmailed by 
Mrs. Barham at that time. I have traced Mrs. Sayre’s 
movements that evening, and both her maid and her hus¬ 
band say that she went on an errand to her dressmaker’s 
early that evening and afterwards returned home, and 
went later with Mr. Sayre to the party at Mrs. Gardner’s. 
I have checked up this story, and I find she did not go to 
her dressmaker’s at all that evening. Her story was that 
she would go to her dressmaker’s wearing a masquerade 
costume that she wished to have remodeled. I hold that 
she wore this costume in order to gain admittance to 
the masquerade at the studio of Thomas Locke, and 
that Mrs. Barham had already told her of his masquerade, 
and that she, Mrs. Barham, expected to be there. 

“I don’t believe that Mrs. Sayre went to the studio 
party with any intention of killing Mrs. Barham, but I 
believe she went there expecting an expose of Mr. Bar¬ 
ham’s double life. I believe Mrs. Barham had suspicions 
of this, and had told Mrs. Sayre of them. Now, Mr. 
Barham, is she the one you have had in mind in connection 
with this matter?” 




238 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


“Yes,” said Barham, “she is.” 

“Will you go with me to interview her?” 

But this Andrew Barham couldn’t bring himself to do. 
He begged to be let off from such an unpleasant under¬ 
taking, and the two detectives went away without him. 

Reaching the Sayre house, they succeeded in obtaining 
an interview with the lady. 

“I don’t know what you can have to talk to me about,” 
she said, a little nervously as she appeared in her living 
room and greeted the two men. 

“Perhaps nothing of importance, Mrs. Sayre,” Lane 
said, “and perhaps it is. Will you detail your move¬ 
ments the night of the studio party in Washington Square 
—when Mrs. Barham was killed.” 

Whereupon Mrs. Sayre glibly told of her visit to her 
dressmaker, and afterward the party at Mrs. Gardner’s. 

“All very well,” Lane said, “but your dressmaker says 
you were not there at all.” 

Rosamond Sayre turned white, but she declared the 
woman had forgotten her visit, or for some reason of her 
own preferred to tell a falsehood about it. 

“No, Mrs. Sayre, she is not telling an untruth, but you 
are. You did not go to your dressmaker’s that night, you 
went to the studio party. You wore the costume of ‘Win¬ 
ter’, and y r ou left the house just a few moments after Mr. 
Locke did. V ou were seen by a neighbor. And before 
you went—just before, you had a discussion with Mrs. 
Barham regarding-” 

“I did! She blackmailed me! She had made my life a 
burden for weeks ! She knew a secret which I would rather 
have died than let it come to the ears of my husband. 
She knew a secret that would have ruined me if it had 
become- known. And she had already extorted hundreds 
of dollars from me which I paid her to keep silent about it. 




THE WHOLE TRUTH 


239 


She was continuing to demand money—she told me that 
night at the studio—we were alone in the den—that unless 
I paid her a thousand dollars she would tell it that very 
night at Mrs. Gardner’s. I didn’t mean to kill her—but 
I was so angry at her cruelty and hard-heartedness that 
in a frenzy of despair I picked up that thing and threw 
it at her. When I saw her fall to the floor, I ran away. 
I couldn’t stay—I didn’t then think she was dead—but I 
knew I had hurt her, and I thought if I got away she 
would not dare tell of my presence there. I knew there 
were enough people there to take care of her. I knew she 
suspected Mr. Locke of being her own husband in disguise, 
and I wanted to get away from the whole scene. I came 
home in a taxicab, and, saying I had been to my modiste’s, 
I changed into an ordinary evening gown and went to the 
Gardners’ with my husband.” 

“You wore to the studio a pair of white shoes that 
had been recently cleaned.” 

“My maid cleaned them that very night, with a chalk 
preparation. Why?” 

“It was that which put me on your track—that and the 
gloves. There was a strong, clear line of chalk, in the 
den where you stood at that time. Also, the gloves pointed 
to a society lady, and as Claudine had told me of your 
visit to Mrs. Barham’s that very evening while she was 
dressing for the masquerade, I just put the vaiious bits 
of evidence together and they pointed to you. I fear, Mrs. 

Sayre, we must arrest you.” 

“Not alive,” and Rosamond Sayre raised her fingers 

to her lips. 

“Stop her, Hutchins, she’s poisoning herself!” Lane 
cried. 

But they were too late. A tiny pellet had served to 
cheat the emissaries of law and justice, and in a moment 



240 


MORE LIVES THAN ONE 


or two, Rosamond Sayre had ended her earthly career. 

As Madeleine Barham had died at her hand, so Rosa¬ 
mond Sayre owed her own death to the cruelty and crime 
of her friend. 

“It all proved up,” Lane said, in telling Andrew Bar¬ 
ham of the suicide. “She had been, among many others, 
a victim of Mrs. Barham’s blackmail. She had reached 
the very end of her patience and her resources. She 
hoped to be present at a mortifying disclosure at the 
studio, and thought that possibly she could make a sort 
of deal, later, with Mrs. Barham, if there was a secret 
to be kept. 

“Also, she said that Mrs. Barham discovered the scarab 
on the table in the den. That she had taken it, knowing 
it was her husband’s and planning to use it as corrobora¬ 
tion of her suspicion that he was Locke himself. So, Mrs. 
Barham had the stone in her hand when she fell. Miss 
Cutler, as she has told, took it from the dead woman, 
knowing it to be valuable, and a prized possession of 
Locke’s.” 

“It’s all true,” Barham said, “and here is my part of 
the story. I did not recognize my wife at all, though I 
saw the lady in the Oriental costume. But I did recog¬ 
nize Rosamond Sayre. I knew her costume, having seen 
it recently, and under the edge of her mask I saw enough 
of her face to recognize her beyond all possibility of 
mistake. So, I instantly assumed that she had learned 
my secret and was there to confound me with its dis¬ 
closure. I concluded at once to go away forever. I had 
no thought of my wife’s being there—I didn’t think to get 
the scarab, which was about the only thing there that 
could connect me with Andrew Barham. I merely tossed 
my monk’s robe to Charley and walked off. I had no 



THE WHOLE TRUTH 


241 


thought of ever returning and simply carried out the 
plan I had from the beginning when discovery should 
come—merely to obliterate Tommy Locke from the face 
of the earth. I went back on two occasions to try to find 
that scarab. Partly because of its real value and partly 
because it meant a revelation of the fact that Locke and 
Barham were one and the same. There is my story. I 
did suspect Mrs. Sayre from the very first—but I didn’t 
want to suggest it. She was—I thought—a friend of my 
wife, and, too, it seemed too dreadful to turn suspicion 
toward a woman. I went to see her—and she begged 
me to try to hush up the whole matter. Now she has 
paid the extreme penalty herself—is it necessary to put 
the facts before the public?” 

“That’s as the police see fit, Mr. Barham. It may be 
necessary to tell the story, or they may conclude not to.” 

“I want especially to prevent Mrs. Selden’s learning of 
it,” Barham said. “It would break her heart to know 
the extent of her daughter’s wrong-doing. I shall do 
all I can to make her life calm and serene for a year or so. 
At the end of that time, I shall feel I have done my duty 
by her, and I shall arrange for her to live apart from me.” 

Barham did not say who would live with him, and who 
would be a more desirable companion than his present 
mother-in-law. 

But in his heart, he said, with a great wave of loving 
affection, “My blessed little Pearl!” 


The End 



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